


One Night in Halam'shiral

by Auntvodkacat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Reincarnation, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:23:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 83,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7468866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auntvodkacat/pseuds/Auntvodkacat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By sheer coincidence, certainly, Morinthe Lavellan encounters an odd man at a bar. A one night stand is all she had ever intended them to be, some faint memory in the backs of each of their minds that would fade away to nothing in time. But he's a strange one, this Solas, and she soon finds that her thoughts will not be freed of him so easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s not that unusual that she wakes up in bed with a stranger, really. She actually knows the hotel, as she’s been here once or twice with a couple of the richer ones. More importantly, she knows there’s a snack bar and a mini-fridge stocked with hoity-toity seltzer water.

So Morinthe sits up, only vaguely aware of the warm shifting occurring beside her and attempts to swing her legs over the side of the plush bed. However, she finds one of them quite severely entangled between another’s. She makes a rather undignified squawk of surprise, and before she knows it there’s an arm wrapping around her midsection and dragging her back beneath the thick sheets.

“Hey!” she sputters, her voice muffled by blankets, feather pillows, and by another freckled arm, which effectively pins her against a much broader chest.

He mumbles something incoherent and nuzzles his face into her neck. Stranger and stranger, she thinks. Normally, she’s having her underwear thrown at her face by now as the asshole goes on about having a meeting or something. If she hasn’t misjudged him through the haze of alcohol, sometimes they’re politely chatting as her underwear is being tossed across the room. 

Point being, Morinthe doesn’t cuddle, but this guy apparently hasn’t gotten the memo. She feels stiff and weird and uncomfortable and the seltzer water is calling, but she can’t move, ensnared in this bastard’s cocoon of comforters and warm, muscular arms. Morinthe squirms again, but the death grip only tightens. All hope is lost. The seltzer water will be left untouched, bound to be thrown away despite having never been opened.

Oh, but then he starts to rub light circles on the side of her arm, and next he’s whispering some comforting nothings in her ear, most notably, in ancient fucking elvhen. Clearly fluent, more so than anyone she’s ever heard. No wonder he was able to get into her pants last night. Honestly, he probably could’ve talked her into doing him in the bathroom if he’d asked her like that, no seltzer water required. Maybe she did, and they’d only come around here for another round or too, for all she knew anyway. It’s all still only a vague fog of events lingering in the back of her mind at this point.

“Um, excuse me ser?” she asks, trying to sound as polite as possible. “My friends are probably worried about me, and I can’t reach my phone.”

“Mmph?” he grumbles, and, rather than kindly removing himself from her person, he plants a brief kiss to her neck. Apparently he’s too out of it to think in Common, which, while endearing, is incredibly counterproductive to the Seltzer Water Plan.

“Please wake up.” she sighs.”I really don’t want them to report me missing again. It’s such a pain in the ass.”

He gives what she interprets as a consenting grunt and begrudgingly releases her from the blankets prison. So as not to look like she’d been completely lying, Morinthe fishes her phone out of her purse from the nightstand first and checks her texts. Surely enough, Dorian, the friend she’s been staying with the last couple of months she’s been in town, has texted her eight times.

Sorry, she types back. Got a bit tangled up this morning, but I’m okay. - M.L.

She smirks at her own pun, leaning back against the headboard as she waits for a response. Nothing, as she expects. Reading back through his messages, Dorian is rightfully pissed at her for running off with somebody without telling him again. She’s kind of impulsive when she’s drunk, which is half the reason why most of her friends out right refuse to take her out anymore. She could probably add one more to the list after this.

“Do you need to be somewhere?” he asks. “I could drive you, or I can call a cab if you’d prefer.”

“No, not really.” she says, and Morinthe makes the mistake of glancing over at him.

Oh shit, he’s gorgeous. Her mind goes flatline as her eyes absorb a chiseled jawline, high cheekbones, full lips, and groggy, lavender blue eyes with long, dark lashes. And the freckles, they alone are enough to kill a person. That dark club hadn’t done him any justice at all; she’d only really seen his baldness, heard how educated and intelligent he sounded, and assumed he was just some nice, lonely, older man. Morinthe usually doesn’t care too much about appearances, as in the long run most of the hotter ones tend to be shit in bed or rude, but this is a rather pleasant surprise.

“Umm,” she gushes, hiding behind her phone.

“What?” he asks, sitting up on his elbows. This causes the blankets to slide back, revealing an ass you could balance drinks off of. Creators, even it’s covered in freckles.

“Nothing,” she lies, pretending to text something else, when she’s really just sending herself a message full of ridiculous smiley faces.

What’s his name? She feels like she really should know, but she honestly cannot place it. It starts with an S, or is it a C? Goodness, she’s never felt like more of a useless tramp in her life.

He turns over to sit up beside her. She’d have lamented the loss of the earlier view, but the one that replaces it is far from disappointing. Morinthe quickly locks her screen and places it face down on the nightstand. He sends her a wry look, followed by a chuckle that damn well shoots through her like lightning.

“If you are smiling over nothing, then I must say I am concerned for your health.” he drawls, popping a crick in his neck. “Not to say that it is remotely unpleasant.”

Is she really blushing like a girl? Morinthe Lavellan, the woman who’s bagged every kind of man from Denerim to Nevarra, is getting red faced and bothered because of this god-like creation who speaks fluent Elvhen? Thankfully, she’s dark skinned enough that it doesn’t show through, but she knows, and the shame knows.

“Well, you’re not all that unpleasant yourself.” she comments, reaching for the remote to the massive flat screen television across the room, one of three in suite. One in the living room, one in the bedroom, and another over the bathtub. This hotel is popular with newly weds, after all.

Another chuckle, dark and rumbling that vibrates to her core. Morinthe turns on the news, just for want of something to create a distraction while she pieces together why, exactly, she hasn’t walked out of here yet. The debates are on, Briala, Gaspard, and Celene are going at it each in their own way, ranging from antipathetic to passive aggressive to, well, aggressive aggressive. Politics may be a bad idea, but if he turns out to be some kind of crazy facist, she can probably just sit quietly until she has a chance to escape and never see him again. Morinthe, because she’s decided to go out of her mind this morning, hopes this isn’t the case.

“Hmmp,” he grunts as he idly glances over to the T.V. “It is interesting how little politics change. The topics may differ but the arguments are always the same.”

“That’s part of the reason I don’t involve myself in them.” Morinthe sighs. “I’m an elf; no matter who wins it’s going to bite me in the ass eventually.”

“Recent history does seem to suggest so, yes.” he agrees, crossing his arms and thoughtfully inspecting the talking-head shot of the increasingly red-faced Gaspard. “You could work to change that, however.”

Morinthe snorts. Yeah right. “In another life, maybe, but not this one I’m afraid. And even in this hypothetical world, where I was an educated, non-Dalish with credentials and a voter-base, what could I do that the Chantry wouldn’t immediately toss out the moment I was gone?”

“A decent point, yes. I suppose we’ll just have to overthrow the Chantry then.” He says, a thumb on his dimpled chin. He’s so straight-faced, Morinthe isn’t sure whether he’s joking or not until he eventually smiles at her. Crazy beautiful, smart, and funny. Something is definitely trying to punish her.

“Maybe we ought to put pants on before we talk about staging rebellions.” Morinthe says. “Names are usually in order too.”

“Solas,” he offers. One of his hands stealthily snakes down her thigh to rest over her knee, and his thumb gently strokes the side. She’s torn between the logical thought to swipe it away and the strange urge to curl into his side and rest her head on his shoulder. Instead, she just awkwardly remains still. “And yours?”

“I’m Morinthe.” she tells him. “Morinthe of Clan Lavellan, and by clan I mean a bunch of folks up in Wycome I haven’t seen or spoken to in eight years.”

“Are the Dalish really so sparse these days?” he asks, tilting his head inquisitively.

“I wouldn’t know honestly.” she replies with a shrug. “I’ve never been really good at the whole ‘Dalish’ thing. I’d honestly rather live my life as a disgusting, complacent, heathenistic city elf bowing her head to the shemlen than be stuck on a reservation my entire life.”

“Understandable.” he says with a small, approving nod. “You are… significantly more amicable than the Dalish I’ve encountered in the past.”

“Yeah, we can be pretty bitchy.” Morinthe chuckles with a rueful smile. “I know it’s annoying when some of us claim to represent all of the elvhen people, especially considering how little any of us have in common at this point, but they mean well at the heart of it all.”

She yawns and stretches her arms above her head, every little joint and muscle popping and clicking as she does so. Morinthe notices with a smirk out of the corner of her vision the way his eyes trail over her.

“It is the arrogance that drives my patience more than the effort to preserve their history.” he concedes. “Although you are thus far relatively humble and even-headed.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.” Morinthe laughs, running a hand through her hair. She fails, of course, as it’s managed to get eight different kinds of messed up over the course of the night.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, checking his own phone from the other nightstand. “It’s a bit late for breakfast at this point, though.”

She hums thoughtfully. “I’ve never actually gone to lunch with one of you before. What’s your game?”

“Excuse me?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

“Never mind,” she deflects shaking her head. She slides out of the bed and into the cold, open air, and she picks up the scattered trail of her clothes that lead all the way from the door. “Let’s go eat.”

(page break)

They end up in an outdoor cafe somewhere, surrounded by the usual tourists with their cameras and screaming children and mask-wearing Orlesians looking disdainfully upon the rabble. Morinthe orders a black coffee and nothing else, but, much to her chagrin, Solas orders her a salad anyway.

“You didn’t have to do that.” she murmurs as her phone buzzes again. Dorian’s wondering, of course, what the hell she’s doing and if he’ll get to meet her new prince charming any time soon. She doesn’t want to dignify that comment with a response, so she simply turns it face down on the table.

“You do not need to starve yourself for my sake.” he counters, lifting his water to his lips. “I was the one who asked you out, after all.”

“You aren’t the one who’s a walking charity case.” she grumbles, propping her head up on her elbow, manners be damned. “I’m pretty certain the only reason anyone puts up with me is either out of pity or because they want to have sex with me. You’re mucking up the waters a bit, though.”

“How so?” he asks with a small, wry smile.

“You’ve already gotten into my pants, but you’re still here, leading me to assume that you must also be sorry for me. A dangerous combination if ever there was…” Morinthe muses into her coffee. Her face twists at the bitter and burnt fluid- good. This disgusting murk is the only thing keeping her grounded in reality at this point.

“May I propose a more radical theory?” he says, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hands.

Morinthe mimics his pose with narrowed eyes. “Shoot.”

“Perhaps I enjoy your company.” he daringly suggests.

“You made that rather clear last night.” Morinthe snorts. Their food came out pretty quickly, and even the salad was more than she’d eaten in about two weeks. No, she’s been living off of two-day old takeout and microwave dinners. Don’t just start hoarking it down, she scolds herself, or he’ll never buy you lunch again. And of course, she wonders what makes her think this will ever happen again, but that’s beside the point.

“We do not seem to know each other very well.” he sighs, leaning back into his seat.

“Well, we did meet less than twenty-four hours ago.” Morinthe replies with a small shrug. Oh, the salad has chicken in it too, and the nasty Orlesian dressing is off to the side instead of smothering the entire thing. “We can start with the basics, though, if you like. What brings you to Halamshiral?”

“I was here to attend the opening of an exhibition at the Winter Palace, which one of my colleagues invited me to. About twenty minutes into the affair my friend and I decided we may find a better waste of our time elsewhere.” He explains with a rueful smile.

“Are they all really that bad?” Morinthe whispers, glancing around to the tables around them. “I thought it was only the Orlesians I kept running into.”

“Oh I assure you, there were more than mere stuffy Orlesians there.” He says, the left side of that perfect mouth quirking. “Ignorant Tevinters, the finest elitists from Orzammar, and even the grand Court Enchantress Madame de Fer, in the flesh and certain to make certain that all of us were well aware of it.”

“What illustrious company you keep.” Morinthe gasped in faux awe. “I could only dream of being called ‘knife ear’ by such wondrous persons. So are you an archeologist then?”

“Part time.” He said, more poking at his salad like he’s dissecting a frog than eating it. “I am mainly a professor at Haven University.”

“What of?” Another dash of black coffee. Beautiful, smart, successful, and educated. Almost everything she isn’t and wishes she could be all wrapped up in one shiny, evil package. No amount of coffee could ever be enough.

“The general study of the Fade, though I also give classes on Rift Magic and, well, Elvhen archeology and anthropology.” If only her history teachers back in highschool had voices like his. 

“Sounds a lot more exciting than a waitressing job.” Morinthe chuckles, shoving more of the blessed, beautiful salad into her mouth. “Though I suppose I’m sort of an anthropologist in a way. You do learn a lot about people while they yell at you over their soup being too cold.”

“You do.” he rumbles. That smile, too. No beautiful, smart, successful, educated mage has a right to smile like that.

“And what would Serah I’m so much Smarter and Better than You know about waitressing?” Morinthe inquires, mouth twisting.

“None of us are born with degrees. I have actually had to hold down a minimum wage job before, yes. I worked at the coffee shop in a bookstore all throughout college.” He admits. Something seems a bit off about him all of the sudden, though. He isn’t looking her in the eyes, she realizes. “Please, don’t pout like that.”

“Or what?” Morinthe dares him, proceeding to pout further. She leans forward again, arms crossed.

“It is,” He manages, clearing his throat mid-sentence. “Distracting.”

“Distracting? Me?” Morinthe asks, a disbelieving hand going to her chest. “How am I distracting?”

“You are...absolutely adorable.” He mutters, actually hiding his face in his hand, and is that a blush creeping across his cheeks? Who’s the adorable one, now?

“Well, I’ve got to even out the scales somehow.” Morinthe drawls, twirling her knife between her first finger and thumb. “We can’t all be genius, funny, mage, professor, archeologists built like statues of a damn demi-god.”

The words are out of her mouth before her already rather faulty filter has processed them. More coffee, less flirting, dammit! Bad, bad, bad. She shouldn’t be talking like that, no. This is just some random schmo she picked up at the club last night, and, more importantly, she’s just the random tramp he slept with and will completely forget about once he goes back to be amazing in Haven.

More throat clearing, more blushes. Piss.

“Well,” he stutters, staring down at his hands. Shit, those are perfect too. The waitress saves them though, when she comes by asking if they need anything else. And, having not touched his lunch, he orders what has to be the most disgustingly sweet and whipped cream smothered frilly cake she’s ever seen. Morinthe can almost smell it through the photo on the damn menu.

“So do you go lurking about in ancient ruins when you’re not trying to cope with the little horrors that are college students?” Topic changer, good. Wait, no, she’s acting like she’s interested in his work. That will make him think she cares. And then she might think that she cares too.

“Yes, actually, although I am careful enough not to have to avoid giant, tumbling stones or poisoned darts. Although, if I do set off the odd trap I usually have an assistant or two on hand to rescue me.” He says. “And if you leave out food for the giant spiders, they are usually content to live and let live.”

Morinthe snorts again, a remarkably attractive sound which is in no way reminiscent of a nug with a cold. He seems to find it endearing, though, if his little smile is anything to go by, so at least she has that going for her.

“So where all have you been, then?” Morinthe asks, leaning back into her seat again. She rubs her arms, but it doesn’t help much. It’s cold, and she hasn’t had a proper coat since Dagna’s dog got at the one she picked up at a thrift shop in Denerim. That was a year ago, and she’d not had reason to buy one since. Winter is definitely upon them, now, and her thin sweater just isn’t cutting it anymore.

“That is a rather broad question,” he muses, eyes wandering off with his thoughts. “Recently, I was working on a dig site in Tevinter, before the government drove us out, anyway.”

“Were you there illegally?” Morinthe whispers with a scandalous smirk. “A death defying seeker of truth railing against the oppressive big cats of the world that would rather see old secrets left forgotten?”

“Generously romanticized, but more or less.” Solas chuckles, swirling the ice in his glass idly. “Although, we did at first have permission to dig there, before the Black Divine revoked it. It seems he was not familiar with me or my work when he had first granted his blessing.”

“And you just kept working anyway?” Morinthe laughs. Unconsciously, she bites her lower lip a little a she does so, and his eyes fly downward again. Oh, this is too fun. And bad. Horribly irresponsible, stupid, and bad.

“As long as I was able, yes.” he supplies. “And I managed to smuggle out the most significant of our finds before we were eventually forced to evacuate.”

“And what finds were these?” she murmurs leaning forward in her seat. 

Somehow they manage to burn away two hours talking about ancient dead people and the dusty stuff they’d left behind. Before they’re done, the frilly cake is long gone, as well as her salad, and they’re walking down the sidewalk with her pink fingers hidden away in between his gloves. She’s leaning in close, obviously not so that she can hear his melodic narration better, but only because she’s freezing cold and he’s like a walking furnace with a proper, expensive coat. She’s also only giggling over his jokes because the chill is getting into her brains and freezing over her common sense.

“So,” he begins as they get back in the car, a ridiculously sexy black two seater that could probably hit sixty miles per hour in a heartbeat if they’d the inclination. It’s blissfully warm once the heater gets going. Good, keep her on better behavior that way. “Do you need a ride home?”

“That’d be nice, yeah.” she mumbles. Wait, does she sound crestfallen? She does, shit. Truly, going home, or her current closest equivalent of it, would be the wise thing.

He nods curtly and starts the engine. Instead of being silent and letting him kindly drive her back to real life, however, Morinthe blurts, “But I think I left something in your hotel room.”

“Alright then.” he says, slowly, like he’s trying not to provoke the frothing mad woman who’s crawled into his car. “What did you leave?”

“My keys,” she improvises. “I can’t get back into my friend’s flat without them.”

He doesn’t mention the fact that she hasn’t checked her purse once since they’ve been out, and simply goes along with it. He’s probably on to her, she thinks. He’s too smart not to be, and she’s not exactly being the most skilled of actresses at the moment. She’s too proud to give up the charade, though, and simply stews quietly as they head back to the hotel.

They make it all the way to the elevator before she manages to do something stupid again. The first couple of floors go by in awkward silence, and that would’ve been fine normally, but this is one of the insane hotels with a hundred plus floors. They end up being in there for a good while, giving her ample time to be driven to the edge staring at those pink lips through the corner of her vision.

So, yeah, maybe she pins him to the wall and, standing on her toes because of course Serah Perfect is tall too, kisses the ever living daylights out of him. He is more than ready to reciprocate, and it’s really a wonder they even make it back to the room at all. He does have trouble getting the key card out of his pocket one handed with her legs wrapped around his hips.

They end up on the couch this time. Morinthe only barely remembers the condom she has in her purse. By that point, he’s on top of her, a knee on either side of her thighs blocking all escape. Her bag’s been thrown all the way over by the door. His mouth on her neck is making it so very difficult to form complete thoughts, and this is all so damn stupid and ridiculous…

She somehow manages to put the words together, and they have wonderfully protected ill-advised sex. Morinthe is able to put the ill-advised bit out of her mind for awhile, or until they’re languishing in the afterglow with a Ravaini game show blaring on the television. She’s trying to figure out why the aging Qunari is gulping down custard when he mutters into her clavicle:

“So where do you think you left them?”

“Left what?” She asks, dragging lazy circles across his spine.

“Your keys.” he murmurs. The smug bastard.

Morinthe sputters indignantly, and, with a wretched scowl, she shoves him off of her. He huffs out a surprised “Oof!”, and if she’d the mind she would’ve stepped on his stupid braggart face. Instead, she goes over him.

“Where are you going?” he asks, sounding oddly desperate. “Ir abelas, I did not mean to--”

“The shower,” Morinthe huffs, turning around again. She notices this time that the door out to the hall is to the left of the bathroom, and it must’ve looked like she was going to storm out. Half naked. She sighs through her nose. “You can come too, if you’ve the mind. I know that show must be riveting, though.”

She can’t help the girlish giggle that bubbles out of her when he practically trips over himself to get up after her. Solas all but bangs into the door as she slips past him.

Aside from the Seltzer water, which she realizes he’s distracted her from rather successfully, her favorite parts of this hotel’s suites are the bathrooms. It has all of the fixings, a shower with a wide nozzle head, sweet smelling soaps in a cute little basket under the sink, and a flat screen T.V. in perfect view of the jacuzzi. All tempting, but as interesting as the idea of soaping up her current partner in a warm circle of jets is, she’s determined to rinse off first.

The water starts going, and at this point they would probably start those previously stated ill-advised activities again if this were any of her other experiences. That’s not how it happens, though. Instead, she ends up with her face tucked into his chest and firm arms wrapped around the small of her back and shoulders.

He gives a contented hum, and they sway a little underneath the steady thrum of the warm rain. It’s enough to almost lull her to sleep, really.

“Why are you so nice?” Morinthe mumbles against the downy auburn hairs on his chest.

“Hm?”

“I’m really not worth it, you know.” she explains blearily. “Seriously, I’m only a girl you picked up at a bar.”

“I am afraid I do not understand your line of thought.” he murmurs, eyes narrowing. “What are you trying to suggest?”

“Well,” she sighs, rolling her shoulders. This earns her freedom from his arms, though she’s not sure whether or not she actually wants it. “I suppose it works kind of like the Winter Palace. You go, get some pictures and a few stories, then go home to brag to your friends and forget about it. Isn’t that how it goes, really?”

“Are you insinuating that you are an object?” he infers, voice suddenly growing wickedly cold. It strikes at something deep in her chest, and it takes some effort not to flinch slightly. Protectively, she crosses her arms over her chest and takes a step back, only to end up pressed against the icy tile wall. “A tourist attraction to be used and thrown away once the cheap, exotic thrill is outlived?”

“I don’t know I just…” she mutters, staring down at her toes in frustration. “What does it matter anyway? Shit.” She bites out, and she moves to leave only to have her exit barred by an arm.

She’s about to tear him a new asshole before he says, “No, I am sorry. I should not have raised my voice at you. You did nothing to deserve it.”

Morinthe pauses, a silent invitation for him to explain himself.

“It is just that,” he sighs, drawing a hand across his eyes. “When I look at you, I see an intelligent, charming, beautiful young woman, and it is painful to hear you speak so lowly of yourself.”

“Alright then,” she says, shifting awkwardly. She still can’t bring herself to look him in the eye now. He slips an arm around her shoulders again and pulls her close, but it’s a bit awkward with her arms still firmly across her chest. Morinthe manages to loosen herself up again eventually, though.

Everything is still weird and uncertain still, but she has an urge then. She pecks him on his silly little chin dimple. This incites a pleased rumble, and his hand falls suddenly to squeeze at the curve of her ass. She makes a sound then, one that she’d promised herself she’d never emit again in her life.

“Did you just squeak?” he purrs, lips curling in delight.

“Did not.” Morinthe huffed, her brows lowering in a mock glare.

“And you’re pouting again too…” he drawls, somehow managing to hold her even tighter and resting his brow on hers. “I feel like I am about to be witness to the wrath of a killer nug.”

She grows viciously and snags his lip between her teeth. So then shower sex happens. About damn time too. Up against the wall, with that damn game show still on in the other room. Interestingly enough, the Qunari wins the big prize right as she comes, bells ringing, crowd cheering, and everything. It’s enough to startle out a loud bout of giggles that no amount of trying to be sexy and alluring can contain. No point, really, if he thinks she’s a damn nug.

“So do you have a creepy nug fetish or something?” Morinthe asks as she towels off her hair later. He throws a sweater from the open suitcase on the bed in her direction. She catches it with one hand, raising her brow in a silent question.

“Put it on, I will take your clothes down to the washer later.” he says, buttoning his shirt.

“You don’t have to do that-”

“I know.” He interjects. “But I want to. Unless it really does bother you, of course.”

“It’s okay, I guess.” she mumbles bashfully, slipping the ridiculously soft, knitted monstracity over her head. He smiles at her in an almost perversely pleased way, and she rewards him with a little twirl. For shits and giggles, she tells herself. “So what now, huh?”

“How about some wine?” he asks, lifting up a dark bottle that was nestled in between a pair of turtle necks. It’s on the smaller side, thankfully. She doesn’t want to end up sloshed again. She’s made enough bad decisions today. “Someone gave it to me at a fundraiser a few years ago, and it’s been in my suitcase ever since.”

“Why?” she asks. Morinthe sits down on the end of the bed and flips through the channels idly. Nothing is on, of course.

“Waiting for an occasion, I suppose.” he answers with a shrug.

“You’re such a dork.” Morinthe remarks fondly. She settles on a ridiculous soap opera, the same one that Josephine vehemently claims is not a soap, and leans back into the disheveled, comfy sheets.

He pops the cork and comments, “No glasses.”

“No problem,” she snorts, snatching the bottle away and giving it a hearty swig. Tangy. He gives an amused, albeit exasperated sigh and crawls in alongside her. Solas drags her back up toward the pillows, and she squeaks (again) as she struggles not to spill the dark wine all over herself. “Watch it!”

His only response is a grunt through a closed smile. Morinthe lays her head on his chest, and he wraps an arm around her waist. She chugs the bottle again.

“Do not drown yourself, lethallan.” Solas chuckles, snatching it away from her to take a turn at it himself. 

Lethallan. The sinks down into her stomach, warm and lovely like hot chocolate. And not the cheap kind that comes in the packets, either, no this is rich and full and smooth. This is probably the alcohol talking, she thinks.

“Why is the Antivan woman chasing that girl with a pair of scissors?” He asks with a bemused look.

“I dunno,” she admits, reaching for the bottle. “I think she slept with her ex-boyfriend’s cousin or something? My goodness, she really should stop running like that before one of her boobs pops out of her shirt. Those things are monstrous.”

“I do not really understand the appeal, personally.” Morinthe pouts as the bottle is stolen once more, but quickly corrects herself. It’s not fast enough, though, and Solas pecks the corner of her mouth before he continues. “I have always had more of a taste for the lower half…”

“She’s got plenty of that too.” Morinthe chuckles. “I’m surprised that dress hasn’t been pulled apart at the seams…. Damn.” She probably should’ve seen it coming, but she jumps none the less when a merciless pinch assaults her buttock. And, of course, another nug noise rips from her lungs. “Shit! Stop that!”

“It is so very hard to resist. So lush and inviting…” he purrs, giving her thigh a fond pat. 

“Oh no, she’s got the girl cornered now.” Morinthe comments. His hand is wandering rather distractingly. “Do you think they’ll really show her stab someone on television?”

“Probably not.” he says, sliding his fingers up and over her hip and toward her belly button underneath the sweater. “I bet the cousin will show up any moment to stop her.”

“I’m feeling it’s going to be the ex-boyfriend, actually.” She counters, taking another swig. “What are we betting anyway?”

“If you win,” he murmurs, pausing as though deep in existential thought, “I will eat you.”

“And if I don’t?” she huffs in amused shock.

“I will probably still eat you anyway,” he admits, stealing the bottle away again. “I shall have to think of another consequence later.”

Well, it turns out that the ex-boyfriend does swoop in and save the day, and Solas keeps his word.

“I get it now.” Morinthe gasps afterward, chest heaving and green eyes wide toward the ceiling. He slides back up from between her legs and plants a sweet, sticky kiss on her lips. “This is all your evil plan to make sure I can never walk again.”

He doesn’t answer, instead just resting his face between her breasts. Such a soft sweater, she’ll have to steal it from him. Call it a keepsake for when he ultimately goes back to his real life and forgets about her.

The soap is long past boring at this point. “Want to rent a movie?” She asks, flipping through what pay per view has to offer.

“Sure,” he rumbles, still nose deep in her boobs. He doesn’t seem like he plans on moving any time soon.

She turns on something full of explosions and not much else. The kind of movie that people can ignore and talk over: good for conversation.

“So where are you from?” he murmurs, finally peeking his eyes out from between the Great Boob Mountains, or hills, more so. He is only half emerged, his eyes and the top of his nose being the only things visible.

“That’s a rather broad question, and one I could answer in a number of ways.” she exhales, swirling the now half-full bottle of wine and watching the liquid slosh.

“How many ways?” he challenges. Solas folds his arms across her collar bones and rests his chin on them.

“Well,” she begins with a wry smile. “If I were an optimist, I’d say that I live everywhere. If I was a pessimist, I’d say I live nowhere. But since I am a pragmatist, I’ll say that I live wherever there’s an open couch and working heat.”

“Fair enough.” he says, dragging his hands along her ribs. At first she’d thought all of the incessant touching had just been a sexual thing, but now she’s not so certain. There’s a comforting quality about it; Morinthe doesn’t think she’s been cuddled so much in her entire life.

“It’s not always as fun as it sounds. A lot of bus rides at three in the morning and the occasional night spent camping out on a park bench.” she explains. “But it has its pros too. I get to travel a lot, obviously, and I meet lots of amazing people, see great places and buildings too…”

“You shouldn’t have to ever sleep on a bench.” he mutters, voice suddenly sharp again.

She’d meant it mostly as a joke, but he seems to have taken her seriously. Alright, maybe she has slept on a park bench before. That’s aside from the point, though.

“Well, I obviously haven’t been knifed or anything yet. What’s the big deal? I can take care of myself.” Morinthe retorts.

“Yet, being the key term.” He says. He’s wrapped too tight now, and everything feels too heavy and biting with this full grown man sitting on her like this. She doesn’t feel in danger, though, more like she’s having to explain why she hasn’t taken the garbage out in a month to a more reasonable, kempt individual who has his life together. 

“Okay, I get that I’m a train wreck, thanks.” Morinthe huffs. She decides then that she very strongly requires her phone and a bottle of that divine seltzer water immediately, so she attempts to roll him off of her. Solas won’t move, though, and being about a half-foot taller and quite a bit heavier than she is, there’s no chance she’s going to be able to actually forcibly shove him away.

“You aren’t a trainwreck.” he whispers, and he actually sounds a little hurt. Oh, and shit, he’s making a face like a kicked puppy now, like she just called his mother ugly. Damn it.

“I’m sorry.” She fumbles around the words a bit, like she’s in middle school or something. This is horribly embarrassing, all of this. She won’t be able to show her face in any of her usual haunts again if her friends find out she’s spent an entire day snuggling with this blushing, sweetheart professor like infatuated teenagers. 

“I am not the one you owe an apology.” He breathes. Morinthe squirms again, so Solas does sit up this time, rolling onto the other side of the bed. It feels nice to finally have a little room to breathe and think. He sighs through his nose and closes his eyes, obviously debating something in his head. “Though I may owe you one. I acted rashly last night, and you have misunderstood my intentions.”

“You intended to have sex with me, which you have made rather clear several times now.” Morinthe tutts. She snatches up the remote control again and turns up the volume, lifting the wine up to her lips again with the other hand.

He plucks it aw and turns the T.V. down again in the midst of another rather dramatic explosion. Limbs and screaming women flying everywhere, nice. Goes well with the thoughts inside of her head right now. It would be a nice reprieve if she could just spontaneously combust.

“No. You have, reasonably, assumed that my purpose is entirely physical, but this is not so.”

“Where do you get off sounding so...smart? It’s not fair.” Morinthe grumbles. The lovely buzz on the end of her nose, great for cheerful foreplay, isn’t enough. She needs to really get sloshed right now, which would probably ultimately end with her embarrassing herself and being thrown out of the room, never to see the Professor Amazing again.

He ignores her, rightly so. “I never do this sort of thing. I always take things slowly, have to be completely certain before any kind of physical attraction can actually set in.” He explains softly.

“Huh. That’s sappy as all crap, but kind of sweet. Must be nice.” Morinthe drawls, brow furrowing. “ I couldn’t handle that…”

“Why is that?” he asks. His fingers, unbeknownst to her, hand been creeping slowly back toward hers again, and they finally hit their target and intertwine.

“I don’t do contracts.” Morinthe hiccups. “Just like I don’t do homes, or careers, or always’s and forever’s. It’s scary, I guess.”

“Hmm…” Oh shit, that had been a very sad hum. The most frightening part is that her brain, whether it’s honest or not, instantly wants to take it back. Say that she’d be there for all the forever’s and the always’s if that’s what he wants. She feels so miserable when he’s sad. It’s cruel to be honest, but it would be crueler to lie and give him hope. She can, at least, hold his hand for now.

“So what’s so special about me, huh?” she asks. “There’s plenty of pretty girls with cute butts out there, you know.”

“If I told you, you would laugh at me.” He confesses softly, closing his eyes. There’s something so peaceful about just sitting in bed holding hands, relaxing with this random stranger. Well, maybe not a complete stranger. A mostly stranger, then.

“So what?” Morinthe urges again. “I could tell you something embarrassing too. I bet I can think of something way dumber that I’ve done. Can’t be hard.”

“I suppose you’d have to get into my head space a bit,” he began, those lovely lavender blues drifting off toward the ceiling. “If you cannot tell, I am not exactly one who frequents nightclubs.

“Tethras said it would do me some good to actually go out and ‘act like a real person’ for once. For some insane reason, I thought he might be right. Of course, the moment I entered the building I realized what a mistake I’d made.” He explains.

“I could tell by your little perch in the corner.” Morinthe recalls. The memories are still hazy for her; she’d probably been a lot more inebriated than he was at the time. “You looked lonely. Your friend is pretty garbage if he just left you like that.”

“Varric is in high demand in every corner of Thedas.” he chuckles. He dragged his thumb across the back of her hand, velvety calluses over smooth silk.

“I think I may actually even know him…” Morinthe it dawns upon her. “Yeah. I crashed a party in Kirkwall thrown by the Champion, and of course he was there.”

“Most people do, even if they do not realize it.” He affirms.

He pauses for a bit, maybe hoping he can just stop there. She’s not letting him off that easy, though. “Well? When did I sweep you away, then? Was it when I spilled my drink all over my shirt and had to borrow my friend’s sweater, or when I nearly broke my ankle on my shoes and had to switch to the emergency flip flops I keep in my purse?”

“I was wondering why you’d wear those things in the dead of Winter…” Solas muses. He wiggles his toes then, probably without thinking about it, but it’s absolutely adorable. They’re rather long, practically dwarfing her tiny digits. “You know, I actually did wonder whether or not I was dreaming when you approached me. It would not be too unusual for me. I am a Somniari afterall.”

Morinthe snorts, loud and shameless. It isn’t that ridiculously uncommon, she had heard of Dreamers before after all, but it is still about a one in a hundred chance that a person could possess the innate talent to walk lucidly through the Fade. And even still, barely anybody who does have that ability is actually aware of it.

“What?”

“Of course you are.” Morinthe scoffs. “How couldn’t you be? Anything else? Are you also a famous rock star or a renowned author or something that I’m just too out of touch to recognize?”

“Well, I am a painter of some notoriety locally, and a bit online as well…” He says, glancing ever so innocently down at his fingernails. She can see the way the corner of his lip curls, though, and she is not remotely amused.

“You aren’t getting out of telling me.” Morinthe snaps. She crosses are arms and glares at him with all her might, but she forgets something vital.

“Pouting…” he growls, a deep sound in the back of his throat that gives her chills.

He’s reaching for her again now, and she almost lets him. But, she manages to bring herself to smack his hand away.

“Stop deflecting!” Morinthe commands, eyes narrowing to slits. “You don’t get to touch me until you spill!”

His nose flares, but he eventually relaxes back against the pillows again. “May I still hold your hand, at least?”

Morinthe is struck silent with shock for a moment. Nobody has asked to hold her hand since she was eleven, and this man certainly knows his way around the bedroom more than a middle schooler. It’s sweet though, like everything else about this damn fool. Of course she can’t refuse now. Asshole.

“Only if you promise to share your animal crackers with me later,” she softly laughs, pecking him on the cheek. The most lovely blush blooms under those freckles, and his long auburn lashes flutter like moth wings. She kisses him again for that, this time on the nose. “Damn it! Stop it with the distractions!”

“What did I-?” he balks, but a pointed glare silences him. She give his hand a reassuring squeeze and settles down next to him once again. “Alright, fine. Where was I?”

“Something about me being right out of a dream.” she fills in cheerfully, glancing back to the explosion-fest.

About last night...

“Ah,” Solas breathes, blush intensifying. “Well, you started making typical conversation with me. Admittedly, nothing that interesting. It was when you threatened to ‘knock a bitch on his ass’, if I am not mistaken, when a human called me knife ear that truly stuck out to me.”

“That sounds like me…” Morinthe garbles. They’re running out of wine, damn. “I like to consider myself a generally nonviolent person, but I draw a line. You weren’t causing any trouble.”

“It is not often that someone actually has stood by me like that. I am… so accustomed to having to fight every battle on my own.” He reflects. “Even if it was only a small gesture, it was striking, and I thank you.”

“Of course.” Morinthe says with a firm nod. “I’d tackle a Qunari for you, Solas. You’re a nice person, and we’re living in a world full of assholes. We need to stick together, you know.”

He stiffens, and his eyes looking past her and the T.V. and probably the wall behind it.

“I should not have spent the night with you,” he admits, turning over on his side. He doesn’t comment on her previous statement, but he doesn’t have to. His flush has now traveled down his neck as well. He cups her cheek in his hand. “It was not what I really wanted, a stringless fling. But you were so vibrant and beautiful, and I knew that if I turned you down you would move on to someone else and forget about me. I really just wanted to be with you, if only for a short while.”

He’d probably been right, admittedly. She has a rule, of course, no strings attached. If he’d been upfront with it, she would’ve turned him down without a thought. Now things are all screwed up and crazy.

“That is pretty silly.” she says. He frowns, eyes flitting away, and he begins to lift his palm. Morinthe, faster than she can even consider the implications, catches it. “It’s okay, though. It’s sweet, you’re sweet. You’re one of the nicest men I’ve ever been with.”

“Oh, um….well.” he stumbles, hopelessly, adorably flustered.

So as not to be sitting in awkward silence forever, Morinthe glances over to her hand in search of a change in subject. “We’re already halfway through the bottle. Damn. No wonder I’m blubbering like an idiot.”

He only grunts in response, snatching it away and taking a generous gulp. It leaves a trail of violet dribbling down from the corner of his lip, and before he can swipe it away with the back of his hand, Morinthe licks it off of him. And maybe she straddles him, and there’s a possibility that he wraps a hand around the backs of her thighs, and… well it’s easy enough to imagine where things go from there.

The afterglow feels like her bones are made of molten honey, and she drapes herself over him. Propped up on elbows, she’s caught staring into his eyes. Such a pretty color, she thinks, and she even likes their droopiness. Definitely not a conventionally attractive man, but fuck conventions. Out of all the prissy, gel-haired, baggy pants wearing heart throbs, he’s certainly one in a million.

“Morinthe…” he whispers. She likes it when he says it; it sends a chill of pleasure down her spine. He tucks a fallen strand of hair behind her ear with his thumb, and he leaves it on her cheekbone. “What if it wasn’t forever or always? How about just for tonight?”

“‘Just for tonight?’” She repeats. Morinthe means to sound coy, but her voice comes out quiet and quivering. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Be mine for tonight.” he explains. “No contracts or commitments. Leave me forever in the morning if you please, but just for now…”

“Call each other stupid pet names and cuddle like teenagers, even though we know hardly anything about each other?” Morinthe infers. She draws her finger down the bridge of his nose, over the the tip, and then drags it across his lips. Soft.

She’s not the romance type, hasn’t let herself be in years. It opens a person up to more hurt than she’s willing to handle at this point in her life. Still, though, the idea is interesting; she wonders if she could pretend to be, just for a little while.

He opens his mouth, most likely to say something bashful and embarrassed, but she kisses him instead. It’s uncharacteristically brief and chaste for her.

“Okay.” She chirps. Morinthe is going to regret this later, certainly, but she hasn’t gotten here with good impulse control.

He smiles then, red cheeks and precious freckles, and he’s obviously trying not to grin too large and make a fool of himself. It makes the whole thing all the more endearing, and she knows she has to kiss him again. So she does, this time on his butt chin. In turn, he pecks her on the nose. Before she knows it, they’re devolving into a giggling storm of intimate little touches. Creators, they are teenagers.

“The movie’s over,” Morinthe comments, nuzzling her face into the un-buttoned portion of his shirt. Why did they bother with clothes, anyway?

“Do you remember what it was about?” he wonders, smoothing his hand down her back.

“Boom.” Morinthe replies flatly. “What time is it?”

He reaches over and lifts his phone up off of the nightstand. “A quarter after three.”

“Really? Feels like a thousand years.” Morinthe remarks, sitting up. “How much longer are you going to be in Halamshiral?”

“My flight is at noon tomorrow.” He says. Solas is such a hands-y man; he’s already got his palms on her thighs now, like she’ll vanish into dust the second he loses physical contact. And yes, it is cute as all shit. Damn it all. 

“Then you have time to sleep in if we’re out too late.” Morinthe determines, finally managing to get off of the bed for the first time in over an hour. She steps into the bathroom in search of her leggings and underwear.

“And where are we going, precisely?” he asks. She can hear the bed creaking in the other room as he stands. She stops in front of the large mirror, noting her horrendously mussed hair, and subsequently starts tearing through the cabinets looking for a comb. It’s doubtful that he’ll have one, after all. She’s in luck; there’s a comb-like object in the soap basket under the sink.

“Wherever.” She comments with a shrug. Morinthe hesitates a moment, scowling in anticipation of the pain. Then, she begins to hack at the knot, face twisted in determination. “Where have you been?”

“Aside from the Winter Palace for the event, and the club last night, nowhere really.” He admits, leaning against the doorframe as she continues to try to make herself presentable. Lucky bastard; she ought to shave her head.

“Really?” she gawks. “Well, we’ll just have to fix that won’t we?”

“Any suggestions in particular?” He drawls. He’s sucked into his phone now, she notices at a glance. Solas’ mouth quirks in annoyance, at what she can’t know.

“Well, we ought to go to dinner. That what they do in cheesy romance movies, right?” Morinthe thinks aloud. “And there’s this one park I always see people in… Movies are definitely out, unless there’s something you were actually interested in.”

“Not particularly.” He answers.

“Figured. You didn’t seem the movie type, but that’s okay. I’m not really either, even if I try to act like it around normal people.” She’s babbling now, but she does that a lot when she’s thinking. Stream of consciousness, following the thoughts on whatever wild path they’ll take her. “Would you like to laugh at a museum with me?”

“Care to explain the activity first?” he chuckles. Oh, the chuckle snort, it’s going to kill her before the night is out for sure.

“It’s best if you go with a tour group, so we’d have to get there soon-ish.” Morinthe says, fidgeting with her bangs. It has always felt weak, but she’s self conscious of the looks the branches on her forehead earn her in public. “It’s all about perspective, really, and the way Orlesians view historical events is going to either piss you off or earn a few chuckles. I tend to laugh a bit more, but then again what little elvhen pride I had in me as a kid has been mostly stamped out by now.”

“Why is that?” he asks. He doesn’t look cross again, though, mostly just curious. “Do you not wish to reclaim that heritage?”

“A part of me did, once.” Morinthe admits. “But I’ll confess, I tend to focus more on making sure I don’t starve or end up sleeping outside again than rebuilding an empire almost four thousand years gone, you know? I do still find what pieces I can gather fascinating, though, and I will look up recent updates in historical findings and such when I have the time.”

“Hmm,” is all his answer, and he reveals none of his true thoughts through his face. This leads her to assume, as per the usual, that she’s said the wrong thing, so she remains in awkward silence until she finishes. She wonders briefly whether or not she wants to go out in the sweater at least three sizes too big for her, but she decides that she really doesn’t give that much of a crap what people think about that, at least. He seems to like it.

Solas makes for the car once they’re out in the chilly air, but she stops him.

“Let’s walk.” She suggests. “We’ve been laying around all day; I’ll forget how to move at this rate.”

“Do you know the way to wherever we’re going then?” He asks.

“I don’t have a car, as if that wasn’t obvious, but I do have a phone with maps.” She replies, holding it up for his viewing pleasure. “Although, I really can’t afford this either. Even I have to spoil myself sometimes.”

It is sort of sad that her standard for ‘spoiling’ is to have some of the basic utilities that nearly everyone she knows takes for granted. Still though, she likes to think it has some small positive effect on her character. One comes to appreciate something more when you can’t just buy up a new one any time. Even though Josephine had been the one to pick up her phone bill. Poor Ruffles hadn’t liked the fact that she had no means of contacting someone if she got kidnapped by an axe murderer or something.

She wonders for a moment in silence where their first stop should be: the museum, she thinks. They may still have another guided tour left for today, and the later it got the less likely they were to catch one.

There’s several in the city, of course, but her favorite is always the art museum. Yeah, is has a real name that’s longer and fancier, the one she has to enter into her phone, but stuffy Orlesians and their long-windedness can suck it as far as she’s concerned.

It’s a relatively short walk, four or five blocks. Not too long to be tiring, not too brief for him to reach over and gently clasp hands. It’s honestly a little strange; she’s not done this since high school. Her heart winces a bit at the thought-- that is a memory she would rather leave buried.

He’s different though, a feeble voice whispers. Morinthe internally scowls; she thought she’d killed it a long time ago, the little fool in her. They’re all the same, in the end, the ones that want to be close, the ones who don’t want to let go. Jailers.

You can’t trap me, she thinks pointedly, I’ll indulge for now, but tomorrow I’ll fly away and never see you again. Though it is meant to be a declaration of victory, the thought ultimately only makes her feel hollow.

But still, as they meander along he points out little things she would normally overlook, like a bird nest made in the hollow center of an ‘o’ in the glowing letters above the door of a shoe store. There is also a jumble of cracks on one curbs that he mentions, which, if you turn your head a certain way, looks like a nug. There’s also a bent street lamp that throws a shadow like a crooked old man with a cane.

Eventually it morphs into a little game to try to spot the most quirks in the world around them. They are distracted enough that they almost walk right past the museum.

They manage to make it in, and they catch the last group for today. It’s with her favorite stuffy guide too, the one with the ridiculous purple ties and his hair always waxed back away from his fish-eyed face. He has the quintessential nasally Orlesian accent to top it all off.

They linger around the back of the group, though, mostly so that he can snarkily correct everything the man says into her ear. It’s hard not to snort out loud, so she has to keep her hand on her mouth for most of the half-hour long tour. His breath puffing across the side of her neck and ear is tickling her horribly as well.

It gets to the point that they start to receive dirty looks thrown over the shoulders of the people in front of them. Somehow, Morinthe manages to get herself under control again, although, he isn’t making it any easier for her. For, it seems that he’s determined to find out just how many spots on her body will make her jump a full foot in the air when prodded.

Ultimately, very little attention is paid to the snotty tour guide or stupid Orlesians, but they do have fun at least.

They step out into the cool blue of near darkness, and, of course, it’s absolutely breath-fogging-your-face freezing. She clings her arms around herself; even the oversized sweater isn’t enough.

“Do you not have a proper coat?” he asks, frowning at her laughable attempts to hide her shivering.

“I did, sort of.” she rattles. “More of a jacket, really. But, um, I have a friend with a dog, and he decided that he really didn’t like my fashion choices. I guess I haven’t really thought it was important enough to pick up another one. I’ve been alright so far.”

He doesn’t look convinced, and it’s a face she’s rather used to seeing. It’s the one that Dorian gives her when she hastily explains why she’d hitchhiked her way into town. Usually, this is right before he reminds her of the fact that she’s 5’ 3’’ and wouldn’t stand a chance against some kidnapper gorilla psychopath truck driver. It’s also very similar to the expression Josephine gets when she tells her all she’s had to eat that week had been granola bars out of a vending machine, or when Leliana finds out she’s only got one change of clothes in her ratty backpack. The, ‘How are you this much of an utter wreck?’ look.

Morinthe very suddenly can’t look him in the face. Just another none so subtle reminder of how completely out of her league he is. Unlike her, he’s a functioning adult with a steady income and living conditions, whereas she’ll probably be completely abandoned by all of her friends eventually (because they’ll get tired of her crap one day, if they aren’t already) and die before she’s forty. It’s all she’s really ever expected of herself, honestly, all anyone ever has. 

“Okay, fine, I get it.” she sighs, moving to shove her hands in her pockets only to awkwardly discover that she doesn’t have any. This only manages to tick her off more, of course. “I’m barely a person.”

He huffs out an aggravated sigh, and Morinthe begins to turn away when she suddenly feels a heavy weight drop down around her shoulders. She realizes, to her horror, that it’s his silk-lined, navy blue pea-coat with the lapels and the wool and the nice buttons on the cuffs. It’s probably more expensive than her entire net worth, and she’s afraid that even by touching it she’s sullied the thing somehow.

“Hey, wait no!” she stutters, trying and failing to shrug out of it. He only pulls it back onto her narrow shoulders again. “It’s not like I’m freezing to death or anything.”

“Take it. I am fine.” He bruskly deflects.

“I swear this is not a good idea. I’ll spill something on it, or I’ll slip and fall in the mud…” She insists, eyes going wider as the nervous drill beneath her skin speeds up its cadence. She grips the lapel in a vice, her knuckles going white. They must be quite a scene, she thinks, standing right by the crowded entrance as people are shuffling around them. Her voice is going higher and higher as the panic sets in. She’s overreacting, ridiculously so, but she somehow can’t stop.

“I do not care.” He replies. Solas extricates her claws from the lapel and keeps her from simply snatching it off herself again by lacing their fingers together. “Where to next then?”

She blanches for a minute or two. Her mind is still stuck on the issue of the coat, and she has to work her obsessive thoughts away from it to be able to move on to anything else.

“I don’t know.” She murmurs, glancing about. “It still feels a bit early for dinner. What about a park, then? Well, it’s the botanical gardens actually, but they have lots of really pretty lights for Satinalia up. I haven’t had a chance to go see them yet.”

“That sounds lovely.” He replies, and soon enough they’re off again, yet another tiny crisis averted. It’s odd, really, considering how many times she’s displayed her obvious insanity by now, that he’s still so determined to stick around. How is she ever going to get rid of him?

Perhaps you don’t want to, the tiny traitor pipes up again. She scoops the little rat back up into its cage where it belongs before she flashes him a smile and drags him in the right direction.

They’re not the only ones there, of course. There’s quite a crowd, and, for a moment, Solas looks a little uncomfortable. She gives his hand a comforting squeeze and stays close, hip to hip as they venture down the winding asphalt paths through the growing darkness.

Amongst the trees and dormant brush, the golden, winding wires of fallen stars make interesting little patterns and shapes, including nugs in hats. She gets quite a giggle out of that, and of course he starts with his smiling again. It’s not a large thing, but the kind that strains at the edges, like he’s trying his hardest to push it down and just can’t hold it a bay. His cheek is a bit far for her to reach, so she kisses his chin instead. The ‘I’m trying not to smile but can’t help myself’ look and subsequent blushing intensify.

The gardens are a winding maze of hedges and trees, almost as large as an entire neighbourhood, usually rife with blooms. In the dead of winter, however, there’s not much to look at normally. But, given a few extension cords and a little imagination, it’s something to behold.

Full on night descends more quickly than she’d been expecting, and it soon becomes quite clear to her that he is anything but ‘fine.’ His breath shudders as it comes in and mists when it goes back out again, and the hand in hers is ice. She clasps it and reaches around for the other one as well, and then they make a knot of fingers inside of his coat.

She’s been here with Dorian the year before, however, and she has an idea of where they should go. Sure enough, toward the center they have the open-air cafe. Usually, it serves little sandwiches and the like, but they’ve got hot chocolate for tonight. And nearby, there’s a large outdoor fireplace of sorts, a masonry structure with an oblong hearth just past the grate. There’s quite a few people who’ve had the same idea as she, but there’s one free spot on left on the hearth, right in the corner. They quickly tuck themselves into it.

Solas takes the coat back, and Morinthe can’t help her shoulders sagging in relief. She follows his actual thought process soon after, however. There’s not enough room for the both of them in that tiny corner, unless one of them feels like being in overly friendly quarters with the cheerful Qunari woman right beside them. So, after he takes his seat first, Solas simply slides her onto his thighs. This way, it’s easy enough to wrap the coat around the both of them. Even buttons her in there with him, silly ass.

This earns an amused chuckle from the few people who catch them in this embarrassingly sweet display, and she even catches an ‘awe’ in there. She’s more than aware of what this looks like, but finds that she really can’t bring herself to care. It is so blissfully warm in their little nook by the fire, afterall. She remembers that he’s been drinking too as he slips his arms out of the sleeves and into their little pea-coat haven to cover her hands with his atop her stomach. Must be an easy drunk, she reasons. Good thing they’d decided to walk.

It’s just so damn cozy that she leans back, head settling in between his neck and shoulder, and lets her eyes drift closed. 

“Are you falling asleep?” he whispers into her ear, lips lingering perhaps a bit too close.

“Mmph…” she grunts, turning her face away from the light of the fire and into his skin. He smells nice, her drowsy brain decides.

“Lethallan,” He urges, jostling her gently. “We cannot stay here all night.”

“Are you sure we can’t?” she mumbles, curling a hand into his shirt. This position makes shifting around a bit awkward. “This is a public area. We’re within our rights to stay as long as we damn well please.”

“That may be true,” he chuckles. His breath brushing down her cheek is as warm as the flames at their backs. “But I doubt they’ll keep the fire going all night.”

“Shit,” she realizes. “Well, I suppose we ought to get up before we’re welded into place, hmm?”

“Probably.” He agrees, unbuttoning the embracing prison from around her. She’s freed from the coat only for a short while, however, before it’s back on her shoulders again.

They linger awhile longer, and she leads him down one of the less populous of the spiraling paths. It doesn’t have quite so many of the lights, but it’s quiet. She thinks he’ll like that, and if his relaxing posture is anything to go by, her hunch is correct.

She wanders away a little now that he doesn’t look ready to jump out of his skin. Morinthe feels light all of the sudden, like she’s a balloon just barely pinned down to the earth. She spreads out her arms and jumps up onto a stone bench, landing on her toes.

“How old are you, Solas?” she asks looking up through the trees to the cloud covered skies past the intertwining branches. It’s not right, really; this is her romance movie night, after all. It should be ridiculously perfect.

“Why?” he replies, voice sounding a bit on edge for some reason. Morinthe looks over her shoulder, and perhaps something about her expression made him feel guilty because he adds, “Do I really seem that much older than you are?”

“Yes and no.” Morinthe breathes. “It’s curious, really. You seem older, I pegged you for about forty or so last night. But it was dark in that club. You don’t look forty something.”

“How old are you?” He deflects again. It’s annoying how often he does that, but, then again, Morinthe’s not innocent of it either.

“Twenty-four,” she sighs. “I’ve been wandering for about four years then. Feels like it’s been longer, though.”

“What started your transience, if I may ask?” he wonders, hands slipping into his pockets.

Morinthe pauses, teeth going straight into her lip. “I uh, left the reservation when I was eighteen, and then I went and lived with a my friend who has the dog until I was twenty. I just had to get out of there.”

“What happened?”

“A boy in the Clan died a few years earlier.” She whispers, turning a lock of her hair over in her fingers. Her ends are starting to split. “He was the Keeper’s son, our First. Things on the reservation started to change a lot after that, and it just wasn’t any place to be. So I ran.”

“Hm,” Is his only answer. Solas does have this horrible tendency toward being vague sometimes.

“It was cowardly, I know that.” she sighs at his imagined judgment. “That’s just seems to be the only thing I’m any good at, dashing off with my tail between my legs, if you couldn’t already tell.”

“Stop insulting yourself.” He says, his voice going stern again. It makes her feel like she’s standing center stage again, spotlight on her as her solo is supposed to begin. Of course, the only time she’d ever gotten a solo, despite having practiced it down to every tiniest muscle strain, she’d tripped up due to nerves when the time came. She’d never been able to audition for one again, despite the instructor offering multiple times to give her another chance.

It’s a strange urge that hits her then, and Morinthe grabs her ankle and lifts it up to her head. Despite not dancing anymore, she still does the same stretches every morning. It’s nice to have at least a little routine in her ever shifting lifestyle, and it seems a shame to let her skills completely rust away. “And why not? I’ve plenty about me to insult.”

“I think you are amazing.” He frankly remarks. Morinthe lowers her leg. Solas is standing right beside the bench now, his head about level with her stomach. She cocks her head at him and blinks rather owlishly.

Amazing? Were they thinking about the same person? Really?

“I suppose I can’t account for taste.” She mumbles, twining and untwining her fingers in front of herself. 

He slips two arms around her waist and buries his face into her stomach. Morinthe wishes that he had hair then, just so that she could run her hands through it. She settles for petting his scalp then; he’s starting to grow some dark stubble there, she notes. Solas sinks into her, but thankfully doesn’t start throwing his entire weight on her. He seems old to Morinthe again, old and tired, like he’s been holding the world on his shoulders for his entire life.

“I’m sorry.” She says, smoothing over the top of his head again.

“What for?” He asks, his rich voice rumbling through her skin. It’s a bit distracting, considering the position of his mouth at the moment, but she does her best to ignore it. She can have self control, sometimes.

“I don’t know.” She admits. “But I’m sorry anyway.”

“Would it bother you, if I was forty?” he asks. His hands creep up under the hem of the coat, and he drags his fingers up and down the ridges of her spine. His poor fingers are ice. 

“No.” she answers with a shrug. “It’s the younger ones who are trouble. Frat boy assholes looking for another notch in their belts. I don’t normally expect to be treated like an empress or anything, but I do require a bit more courtesy than a gas station urinal, you know?”

He laughs, but it comes out broken and raspy, somewhere halfway between mirth and a sob.

“Solas, are you alright?” she urges.

“Probably not.” he answers. “But I try not to consider that question too often. I find it often only makes me feel worse.”

“I guess that’s something we share in common, then.” she remarks, cradling his head now. “You see, now you’re freezing your damn ears off White Knight. I told you to keep your coat.”

“But then you would be cold.” he protests.

“I think we should find somewhere indoors next, a restaurant maybe?” she decides. “Then we could go back to the hotel room, turn the heat on, and crawl under the covers until about two tomorrow. Or maybe a bath first? It’d be a shame not to get at least one use out of that jacuzzi.”

“Sounds like a plan.” he agrees, taking a step back away from the bench. Solas holds his hand out to her, and, with an eye roll and a chuckle, Morinthe takes it.

Although some kind of ridiculously fancy five star place seems appropriate, Morinthe doesn’t think she’s properly dressed for or prepared to feel the guilt of him ultimately wanting to pay the bill for that. So, they end up settling on a steak house. Fancier than a burger joint, but not the kind of place you call for reservations a week in advance and wear a suit and tie to.

Being a Sunday, it’s moderately crowded, but not overly so. Saturday night’s always the one that’s craziest, she would know. She hadn’t gotten off yesterday until eight o’clock, and probably would’ve passed out into bed if Isabela hadn’t invited her out with some of her friends. Morinthe hadn’t been to the club for a month and a half, and she’d been aching to break from the cycle of working and sleeping and occasionally shoving radioactive T.V. dinners down her gullet.

It’s refreshing to have the distance of a table between them. Well, it’s not like she dislikes the proximity, but it does make it a bit easier to form sentences.

Morinthe orders a steak, twice as large as anything she could eat, but this is mostly as a preemptive apology to Dorian. It’s a simple rule; eat half of dinner, bring home the rest to the roommate. Morinthe doesn’t go on dates nearly as much as Dorian, so she owes him quite a few plates of leftovers still.

He orders a small plate of pasta, though he barely even touches it even once it arrives. Solas mostly nibbles on the bread that they give them beforehand. He seems more focused on talking than anything else.

“So who is your roommate?” He wonders as Morinthe checks her phone again. Dorian is going to kill her, no mistaking that. Oh well, she’s mostly dead anyway.

“Dorian Pavus, gayer than the day is long before you ask, and a complete genius too. I’m not really sure if you’d like or hate each other. Maybe a little of both.” Morinthe replies with a shrug. “He’s studying to be a theoretical physicist, sort of obsessed with the idea of time travel. Sounds crazy, but I honestly think he could find a may to do it. He’s just insane enough to find a way.”

“Sounds like an interesting man, insane or not.” Solas replies, cracking his knuckles. He really needs to stop calling attention to those lovely hands of his.

“I get to ask a question now.” Morinthe decides.

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that the game we are playing now?”

“Ah ah!” Morinthe interrupts. “You don’t get another question yet! It’s my turn!”

He tips his head forward in acceptance and leans back against the booth.

“So what’s it like, being a dreamer and all? You just sort of glossed over it earlier.” Morinthe prods.

“It is a rather broad topic.” He remarks. “I mostly dream in the ruins that I explore. Through my journeys in the Fade, I am able to find ancient memories and spirits who have thousands of years of history to share. It is a despairingly unexplored field, namely due to superstition.”

Morinthe hums in thought and props her chin up on her hands. Yeah, she’ll put her elbows on the table if she wants to. “That really does sound amazing, but I hope you’ll understand that I can’t take it at face value. World’s made me a horrible cynic, you see.”

“Only a fool blindly believes anything he is told.” Solas agrees. “It is a great deal to take in without any proper evidence.”

There’s a look in his eye now, a clever little thought curling around behind his retinas that is both exciting and terrifying.

“What are you on about now?” She asks, a bit of concern leaking into her tone.

“I believe it is my turn to ask a question, lethallan.” He deflects with an all too innocent smile. Oh dear.

He takes a moment this time to really think it through, and, of course, with each passing moment Morinthe grows more tense. She feels like he’s about to ask her where she’s hidden the body or something. Solas does finally speak up, though.

“Do you dance?”

Morinthe blinks at him for a moment, but then she remembers. Right, her little leg lift in the park. Why had she done that again?

“Yeah, well, I used to. I did ballet when I was little, but I branched out into more free form styles as I got into highschool. I was the only elf on our dance team, actually. I haven’t really done it since I graduated, though.” Morinthe explains. Or didn’t graduate, she thinks.

“Would you start it again, if you had the chance?” He murmurs, eyes softening for some reason. He looks like he understands what it’s like. How much work goes in, how much real devotion, and how horrible it is to have to let it all go to waste.

“I think it’s my turn to ask a question now.” She says, quieter than she would’ve liked. Who’s deflecting now, she thinks.

“Go ahead then.” Solas relents, only in his words, though. He’s got this strange resoluteness to him, firm but not threatening, really. It makes her wonder just what’s going on behind those eyes of his, so damn complex they won’t even stay the same color for crying out loud. In the yellow, low lights of the restaurant they look purple, maybe even a little brown. The nerve of the it all is outrageous.

“Do you have any family?” She asks, just something to change the topic really.

Solas stiffens though, clearly caught of guard. He’s slow in his answer, which of course only makes her more curious.

“Yes, but I have not seen them in a long time. We were never on the best of terms.” Solas explains bruskly.

He’s obviously uncomfortable, and Morinthe should know what it’s like to hate your relatives. She decides to leave him alone on it, despite the fact that she’s rather infamous for her unquenchable curiosity. Dorian has outright kicked her out of their apartment a couple times for her nosiness.

“What made you decide not to engage in long term relationships, if you do not mind my asking?” He says, and then he quickly adds. “You do not have to answer if you would prefer not to.”

“No, um, it’s okay.” Morinthe stutters, glancing to the side. “It kind of all goes back to this one lady that I knew when I was younger.” 

He’s quiet for a while, clearly waiting for her to go on. Shit, she’ll have to indulge in her least favorite activity now, it seems. Talking about herself, worse still, talking about her feelings. Fuck.

“We called her my aunt, but she really wasn’t related to me or anyone else in my clan. She was human, actually, but she’d been around so long and was such good friends with all of us that she was basically family.

“Anyway, she’d never been married and never wanted to be, but she wasn’t lonely at all. Everyone in Wycome knew her, and even to the day she died she was laughing and surrounded by friends. It was all she ever needed, no romance at all, and she was always her own master, never had to take orders from anyone.” Morinthe says, staring down into the bubbles in her glass of soda. “Ever since I left, I guess I’ve just been trying to be more like her. It’s not as easy as she made it look, though.”

“Perhaps that just is not the sort of person you are.” Solas suggests. “What works well for some may not suit others, no matter how much we would like it to be so. We cannot change our natures simply by wishing.” He chuckles to himself, at what she cannot possibly know. “Trust me, I have tried.”

Morinthe can only stare at her hands for a bit then. She’s honestly had the same thought in her head a few times before, but it’s never lead to anything. Yeah, she’ll admit, Morinthe isn’t happy the way she’s living now, not at all, but how can she know it wouldn’t be worse trying something else?

“I don’t think I like this game anymore.” Morinthe laughs, trying to go for brevity and ending up sounding more like she’s trying to joke off stepping on broken glass.

“I think we have been out long enough.” He agrees. Morinthe likes the connotation of that; she could use some sex after all of this emotional investment. It’s exhausting, really.

They walk back to the hotel room, and her brain almost calls it home. In this strange night, a meeting of their two separate realities that likely will never occur again, it is their base she supposes. They’re both oddly silent for once, mostly alone on the street. It isn’t uncomfortable, though, more like they’re just content to exist together without needlessly filling the air with noise. It’s a nice change of pace.

He’s still shudder-breath freezing, even though he’s trying to act tough. Idiot. She holds his hands in the coat again, wishing she’d gone ahead and brought some of Dorian’s hot pocket warmer things the night before. 

They get back, and for once Morinthe isn’t really excited to take her clothes off. The tub starts running though, and once it passes the toe dipping test she’s more inclined to shed what little she’s wearing. Damn, what possessed her to not bring socks last night? Her toes are about to fall off in these stupid flip flops.

Somehow in her mind she’d imagined this little soak to be a great deal sexier, but she’s too tired and cold to even move by the time they get into the water. Solas seems more than satisfied just to rest for a bit, though. He pulls her sit across his legs, and Morinthe settles in with her face hidden against his neck.

Morinthe glances down at her legs, and notices the stubble starting to grow on her thighs. Solas can probably feel it, too, scraping against him like iron wool, but he hadn’t said anything. Definitely a winner, this one.

There’s still that T.V. in here, too, and a normal person would’ve turned it on by now. It occurs to her in that moment to wonder why people always need to distract themselves from each other these days, as if there’s too much pressure in simply devoting all of one’s attention onto a singular person.

Even on dates, people are always texting on their phones or checking the score on their game or whatever else is flitting back and forth in their consciousnesses like flies swinging around an empty room. Never before in her life has she felt so appreciative of simple peace and quiet.

Morinthe dozes off without realizing it only to have him nudging her shoulder with those long fingers of his. Even the backs of his hands have freckles on them. She giggles at that, probably because she’s at that point where she’s so tired that she’s losing her mind. Well, what’s left of it anyway.

“That water is getting cold, lethallan, and my legs have fallen asleep.” Solas informs her, a fond smile leaking into his voice.

“Oh, I guess it has.” Morinthe remarks, not having really noticed it before now.

When she doesn’t go on or move, Solas prods again. “May we go back bed now, please?”

“But, I’d have to walk…” Morinthe whines, and she wraps her arms around his shoulders. Solas manages to pry her off of him regardless, and he sets her down next to him. Morinthe blearily blinks around the room for a bit as he stretches his legs out, wiggling the ends of his oddly long toes. When he seems relatively certain he’s not going to tip over, Solas stands up and grabs the two towels off of the bar on the wall. Who invented those bar things anyway? It looks rather silly to her all of the sudden.

He helps her up out of the water, and Morinthe begrudgingly relents to standing as they both towel off.

Morinthe has her face half hidden into her towel when she notices he’s looking at her again, but there’s something strange about his face now. It’s like he’s got something to say, a world of things to say, but he can’t pick which one, or maybe he thinks he ought not to. There’s so much emotion in his eyes, like he’s been walking for miles without water and has finally found a fountain. It doesn’t even matter that the damn thing’s a public one and has probably had the mouths of thirty different people on it, he’s just that damn glad that he’s not going to die of dehydration.

“What’s wrong Solas?” She asks.

“You…” He huffs, glancing away. He’s blushing again, and it’s travelling all the way down to his navel. “You’ve always had the most beautiful eyes.”

That can’t be the whole of it, but perhaps he’s just so overwhelmed it was the only thought he could get out. It’s odd how he says it, though. “Always? It’s barely been twenty-four hours.”

“I, um.” He’s a little pale all of the sudden, she thinks. “A slip of the tongue. Forgive me.”

“It’s okay.” She mutters with a sheepish smile. “ I get that a lot.”

It’s true that her eyes are the first thing that most people notice about her. Her hair is just a pretty typical brown, and she’s not got much going on the bust department. She does, however, have very large, brightly green eyes. It seems a likely story, anyway.

They make it back into the bedroom, not bothering to turn the lights on. Instead, the only thing illuminating the room is the light that pours in from the bathroom door. Morinthe ends up on her back lying against the pillows. He towers above her, and shadows are cast over his face while the sides of his cheekbones are eerily highlighted.

Of course, because they are both elves, Solas’ pupils are bright even through the darkness, and they linger down and across her. Something in particular grasps his attention, so much so that he reaches out to trace the one spot on her right hip.

“Like my birthmark, hmm?” Morinthe chuckles, in that awkward way people do when they’re not sure what to say. It’s always been a tiny, secret source of pride for her. The little mark, a patch of skin paler than the rest, is in the shape of a swooping bird. It looks like the ones that sailors get tattooed onto them, the fast things with the split tails.

Solas mutters something, no he doesn’t even mutter. He mouths the word, but she can’t really make it out at all. He’s got disbelief all over his face, though. Solas shakes his head, white teeth flashing across his lower lip.

Before she really has a chance to question him, Solas turns her over onto her stomach. A wave of different emotions crashes over her all at once, and her hands curl into tight fists underneath her. She doesn’t do this sort of thing. Where sex is concerned, she always likes to be in charge of what’s happening, of every single twitch and shift. He’s behind her now, though, and she has no idea of what he’s going to do. Worse still, he blankets over her and puts his weight onto his forearm, which he curls beneath her head. Then he wraps the other one around her waist.

She can’t sit up, can’t even move. Solas can do whatever he wants now, and she’s completely helpless to do anything about it. It’s so terrifying she can barely breath.

Solas senses her discomfort, probably because she’s gone as stiff as a board. He hushes her softly and nuzzles her neck. “You are alright. We can stop if you want to, just say the word. I would never hurt you, Morinthe.”

He’s right, Morinthe realizes; she’s not helpless. This is real life, and they’re reasonable adults who can use their words. If something doesn’t feel right she can just say so. Who knows, it may even be nice to let someone else take charge for once, in a safe way. 

“Okay…”She murmurs.

“Is it alright, or do you actually want me to?” He prods gently.

“No, I mean, yes,” Morinthe fumbles over her own tongue. “Shit, what are words? Yes, do the thing.”

He chuckles and presses his lips to the nape of her neck.

So she relaxes, well a little bit. Apparently, she’s still about as malleable as a plank of wood because he laughs and sits up soon after. Morinthe sheepishly glances up at him over her shoulder.

He doesn’t seem insulted or annoyed, at least. Solas starts to run his hands up and down her spine, easing out the knots, and she can feel his magic working through his fingers and seeping a pleasant warmth into her skin. Morinthe starts to relax again, but he keeps going to the point where she thinks she’s going to melt into the sheets.

Solas shifts back into position again, and Morinthe is content just to rest her cheek against his forearm. A strange, soft sigh escapes her when he starts, and it’s so slow that she thinks she’s going to go insane. She’s decided to trust him now, though, hasn’t she? Everything is going to be alright, she reminds herself.

It’s nice to live in the moment for once, actually. Makes her wonder about just how much of life is about getting from one thing to another with no appreciation for the time in between. What is it about this guy that makes her so damn existentialist all of the sudden?

She feels as though they’re there like that for hours, complete silence reigning save for soft grunts and pants of air. Morinthe feels like she might float away like a feather if he hadn’t had her so well pinned down, as cliche as that sounds.

When she finally crests over, after about five or six near passes, it’s not the explosive feeling that she’s used to. It ripples through her skin in warm waves all the way down to her toes and the tips of her fingers, and it leaves her feeling tender, pliant, and absolutely exhausted. Yep, she’s definitely never going to move again.

Solas follows her soon after, and then he slides over to her side to curl around her. He sighs, a deep sound coming up from the depths of his lungs and out of the top of her head. Then he starts to run his fingers through her hair. It feels so damn good, and she’s probably going to black out at any moment now. What is she, a damn cat?

Oh well, nothing for it. She’s shed every shred of dignity she’d had for this weird, beautiful man, and at this point Morinthe can only hope that he’s proud of himself.

If she hadn’t been about to slip into unconsciousness, Morinthe might have been more bothered about what he murmurs next, horrified even.  
He breathes the quietest of sighs. “Vhenan...”

She dreams, something she isn’t really expecting considering how black out tired she’d been. It’s a rather strange little vision as well. Morinthe finds herself resting beside a fire in a camp somewhere out in the middle of the woods. Now, usually, she dreams that she’s late for work or on the tram or something, not of camping out in some random wilderness she’s never been before.

Odder still, Solas seems to have somehow followed her here. He’s curled up beside her, and his head is resting in her lap. Had she been singing? Yes, a soft little melody she remembers someone humming to her in some foggy, distant memory of a memory. That’s the moment she realizes that none of this can be real, because in waking she wouldn’t be caught dead singing for anyone but her showerhead.

He opens his eyes and frowns, and when he looks up at her he reminds her of a puppy, or even a child perhaps. This entire situation, despite the nature of their relationship, is so strikingly innocent. “Why did you stop?”

“Oh, um.” Morinthe stutters, her mind going flatline. “I’m sorry, but where are we?”

“I could answer that question in a few ways.” Solas says. Morinthe pets his stubbled head, and he gives a contented hum.

“What’s the simplest way, for now?” Morinthe chuckles. For kicks, she reaches around and scratches behind his ear, which elicits an odd, but pleased sound from the back of his throat.

“This is the Fade, and we are in a memory, most likely one of mine.” He explains, settling back down on her thighs again. He does look quite comfortable, and she can’t blame him. She’s got plenty of thigh to rest a head on, that’s for sure.

“If this is my dream, then how am I in one of your memories?” She asks.

“I suppose this could be classified as our dream, in actuality.” He corrects. Solas has a small, happy smile, and with his eyes are so gently closed. It’s more relaxed than he’s been since she’s met him, Morinthe realizes.

“You seem a bit more at laid back here.” She comments, running her fingers along the scar on his forehead.

He gently nods. “Things have always been easier for me in the Fade.”

Given the opportunity and his clear lack of opposition, Morinthe strokes his cheekbone with her thumb, then she follows the line of his jaw, and brushes the bridge of his nose. Eventually, he starts to chuckle. “What are you doing?”

“You’re beautiful.” Morinthe murmurs in unconcealed awe.

He shakes his head before closing his eyes again. “I suppose I would not know. I am certain that I do rather pale by comparison, however.”

“So, um, Solas?” she whispers, leaning over him. Her hair falls over her shoulder and brushes his face. Apparently it tickles, because his nose twitches. 

“Hm?”

“When exactly is this? Do you go camping out in the middle of nowhere often?” Morinthe asks.

He sighs out of his nose, the smooth lids of his eyes tightening as if trying to shut out a bright, painful light. “Do you truly not remember? Not at all?”

“What are you talking about?” Of course this has to happen. He can’t be gorgeous and smart without being a little off in the head. Unfortunately, nobody can be that perfect at the end of the day it seems.

He doesn’t answer, only hiding his face in her legs. “I am sorry. I should not have brought you here, but I had hoped…”

Solas is quiet for a while, and he seems so sad again. In this strange dream world, Morinthe can feel it beyond his face, seeping into her bones. So lonely.

“Would you sing for me again?” He asks, almost as though he expects to be smacked.

“Alright,” Morinthe says, voice somewhat feeble. She feels like she should be demanding answers, make him be straightforward for once, but he seems so miserably tired. Maybe another day, she thinks.

But you aren’t supposed to have another day. It’s just for tonight, right?

Even more reason to sing, then. If he has to fly away back to his world, away from his trainwreck hook up, Morinthe would hate to end it all with a fight. 

So she starts to sing for him again, and his sweet smile creeps back. Good, no more sorrow, no more tears. She has a feeling he’s had more than his share in his life.

“Are you really going to leave me again?” He whispers, his voice cracking. The dream is starting to shift and blend around them like paints in water.

“I’m sorry,” Morinthe manages, even through the confusion fogging her brain and eyes. “It’s just the way things are. We cannot change our natures by wishing.”

“It is not our natures at fault. It never is.” Solas snarls. Her eyes widen; she’s never seen him so riled up, and so suddenly as well. “The stars seem to be eternally twisted against us.”

Solas sits up and cups her face in his hands. He rests his forehead to hers, eyes shut, and then kisses her slowly, perhaps even a bit possessively. “Forgive me, vhenan, but please…”

His eyes open, and what she sees shocks her so much that she’s frozen in terror. They glow, bright blue through misty fog.

“Forget.” 

 

Morinthe wakes with a start. Her heart is racing, but for the life of her she can’t place why. All she knows is that she wants to get out of here, now.

There’s something heavy and hot that’s holding her now, but she smacks it away and falls out of the bed. She lands on the floor with a thud, and she’s hyperventilating now as she scrambles to get up to her feet again. Something’s moving around in the shadows at the corner of her vision. Morinthe looks frantically about the room to find the door.

Her eyes land on it, and she starts to make a run for the exit. Unfortunately, she’s on the far side of the bed from it, and the towering shadow cuts her off. It grabs her shoulders, and she feels so small and helpless again that she wants to scream. The walls are closing in on her, and they’re going to eat her alive if she doesn’t escape soon. But the shadow is still in the way, and it won’t let her go. She hammers on its chest, and it grabs her forearms in a vice grip until she stops.

“Morinthe!” He whispers, a low hiss.

“Let me go!” She cries out, probably loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear her. Morinthe’s crying, she realizes, sobbing even.

He hushes her frantically. Who is he? Where are they? Why is she here?

“Morinthe, Morinthe calm down, please. I will let you go, but you have to get a hold of yourself.” He urges. “Try to breathe.”

Morinthe sucks in air like a gasping fish, and that doesn’t help much. Eventually, though, she’s able to make some progress. The walls don’t seem to be trying to devour her anymore, at least.

“Do you remember where you are?” He asks. How does he know what’s going on in her head right now?

“N-no.” She stutters. He’s got his hands wrapped around her wrists nows, and her arms are trembling. They’re the only steady thing she has keeping her in place.

“I am Solas.” He reminds her, voice firm. “We are in my hotel room, because you’ve spent the night here with me. Remember?”

Slowly, her mind catches back up with everything else. Yes, he’s right. She’s supposed to be here, and he’s Solas. Solas is safe, so she’s safe. Everything is fine.

Eventually her breathing and heart rate slow down, and her arms stop shaking. He pulls her in for a hug, this time more comforting than restricting.

He has a guilty look now, but because of what she cannot possibly know.

“I should have remembered…” Solas drops off, shaking his head. “We should go back to bed.”

Morinthe numbly nods and lets herself be lead back into the bed. They sink into the covers, and he curls back around her again. For some reason, it’s so horribly cold in the room now, but he’s like a furnace. Morinthe finds herself able to drift off again, this time into a more peaceful rest.

The next morning comes, as they do. Their little experiment has come to an end. Morinthe has to be at work in two hours, and Solas’ flight back to Haven would be in three. As he’d promised before, Solas drives her back to her apartment. He’s dead silent the entire time, like they’re going to a funeral.

He walks her to the door, of course. Solas is that old fashioned, after all. For a moment or two he just stands there, hands in his pockets. He looks like he’s trying to find something to say, anything that could somehow make a difference.

“Well,” She breaths, looking down at her freezing toes again. “Thank you, this… This was fun.”

“I-” Solas starts to speak, but he closes his mouth. He can’t meet her eyes, and his mouth is drawn into a thin line. “Goodbye, then.”

He starts to turn away, but her hand shoots out and grasps him by the elbow. Solas looks at her again, a small spark of hope lingering in his gaze.

“If you’re ever in town again, um, feel free to look me up.” Morinthe digs in her purse and finds a pen. Then, she hastily scribbles her phone number down onto the back of his hand.

Solas looks at his hand like she’s just given him some kind of priceless, two thousand year old artifact. He swiftly, smudging some of the letters slightly in his haste, takes the pen from her and leaves his number on her hand, as well as an address.

“If you are ever in town and need somewhere to stay.” Solas offers.

“Yeah,” Morinthe replies. Normally she’d be lying when she’d say something like that, but now she doesn’t know. Some insane part of her actually desperately wants to see him again.

He shifts away again, only to with lightning swiftness duck back down peck her on the cheek. Solas is gone again and walking back toward his car before Morinthe can even process what’s happened. She just stands there stalk still, watching him drive away with a stunned look on her face.

Without her permission, her fingers rise up to graze her still damp skin. Oh dear. This doesn’t seem like it’s going to be a one night affair afterall.


	2. Chapter 2

Morinthe doesn’t use the phone number for some time, really. A couple months, in fact. Not to say that she doesn’t consider it at all, or, perhaps, every single time she picks up her phone. Morinthe’s thumb hovers over his contact, over and over, but she never hits it. He’s got more important things to do, she thinks for the first few days. He must be so busy. If you call, he’ll just be annoyed with you.

Her excuse changes after some weeks. She hasn’t called in so long, after all, maybe he’s forgotten about her. By now he probably just assumes she never will contact him again. He’ll just be angry with you if you try now, she reasons.

So, that’s why she doesn’t speak to him until late one night. Her face is pressed against the cold window beside her, and there's a backpack occupying the seat to her left. All around the bus is completely silent, everyone else either asleep or absorbed into whatever device is resting in their hands. The hand holding the phone to her ear shakes as she listens to the ring.

When she hears a muffled greeting, really only a grunting bunch of syllables loosely linked together, Morinthe's smile fogs the window. “Hi,” she whispers. It’s like she’s fifteen again, head under the blankets with a scribbled phone number in her hand. “How are you, Morinthe?” He sounds tired, probably because she’s just woken him up in all likelihood, but, even though he has every right to be at this point, Solas doesn’t sound angry at all.

“I’m okay.” She says, and she can’t help the secretive smile that keeps pushing its way up despite her efforts to hold it back. There’s just something so wonderful about hearing his voice again after all of this time, even though she’d been certain to tell herself that she didn’t actually care about him. At all. Which is, of course, why she’s grinning like an idiot right now.

“Did you need something, lethallan?” He murmurs groggily.

“Not really. I, uh, just kind of wanted to talk to you.” Morinthe admits. Now he’ll be pissed, of course. She’s woken up Messer Busy Professor for no reason.

“Alright. What do you want to talk about?” He replies smoothly.

“I don’t know. Um, where are you right now?” Morinthe blurts the first thing that pops into her head. It seems pretty stupid now, of course, but there’s no taking it back at this point.

“On my couch. I seem to have drifted off while I was watching a program.” He explains. “Where are you?”

Watching a program, huh? Sounds like something he would say. Morinthe honestly can’t imagine him calling it something normal like a T.V. show. “I’m on a bus.” Morinthe answers.

“Where to?” He asks, suddenly sounding rather intrigued. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where his line of thought is going.

“Redcliffe.” She says. It’s only a hour away from Haven, at most. “But I don’t know if I’m going to be staying there very long.”

“You moved out of Halamshiral?” He infers with some concern creeping into his tone. “Did something happen?”

“No, I just…” Morinthe drawls, looking back out into the speeding darkness. “It was starting to get on my nerves I guess, being in that city. Too many canals, made everyone smell like rancid sewer water.” That isn’t even a fraction of the reason why she’d left, but it’s the funniest one she can think of. Well, maybe Dorian had brought up her reckless bullshit a lot recently. He’d have probably kicked her out if she hadn’t left first, and rightly so. Morinthe is, admittedly, a pretty shit friend and a worse roommate.

“Redcliffe is a port town. I’d doubt it’s much better.” He says.

“Would you have a better location in mind, perhaps?” The words are out of her mouth before her logic has a chance to shut her up. Hasn’t she just gotten finished making one friend hate her? When will it end? Is Morinthe just going to have to piss off the entire world before her selfish ass is satisfied?

“I may,” He chuckles, warm, dark, and low. Morinthe doesn’t want to think about consequences when she hears that laugh, though. They’re something she really should consider more often, but what can she say? She follows her heart, and, yeah, maybe her hormones a bit too.

“You know I,” Morinthe starts to babble, but pauses. Is this manipulative? She doesn’t mean to be, but does anyone? Oh well, at least it will make him smile. “You give really good hugs.”

“Excuse me?” His words are muffled by a brief cough.

“Well, my ex-roommate tried to give me a hug the other day, and it didn't go over too well. Maybe it was partially because we’d just had an argument, but I don’t know.” Over-sharing, the only thing she’s any good at aside from being a general flake. He laughs softly, but Solas does follow the natural line of thinking that he’d been bound to end up at eventually after that comment.

“Did something happen?”

“Just up to my old tricks again, I suppose.” Morinthe sighs, drawing a smiley-face in the glass. “I’m okay, though. I’ve got some money saved up, and Dorian isn’t that angry. Just a little disappointed, I guess.”

“Whatever it was, I am certain he only said what he did because he cares about you, Morinthe.” He replies.

“And how do you know that? You’ve never met him before.” Morinthe asks.

“I am certain that there are many people in this world who care for you a great deal more than you believe.” He says.

“I don’t know about that, but thanks.” She breathes.

“Well, I do know one thing.” He begins forebodingly. Morinthe can tell by his tone that he’s up to something again, crafty… damn. She wants to call him a bastard, but he’s really not. She’s known more than a few, and he doesn’t make the cut by any stretch of the imagination.

“What?” Morinthe asks. She’ll play, why not after all? He’s probably going to say something agonizingly sweet, enough to make her want to throw up, but what does she have to lose?

“You have the most beautiful laugh.” He says, far too chirper for a man just dragged out of sleep. It’s disturbing, really. “Everything about you is beautiful.”

“And you are the most heinous dork in a existence.” Morinthe hisses, glances nervously around. No one’s paying attention, and it’s not like they can hear him. For some reason she feels deeply embarrassed regardless.

“Ah, that may be true, but I made you smile didn’t I?” He replies smugly. “Though it pains me that I may only see it in my imaginings.”

Maybe she had, maybe she hadn’t. “You talk like one of those poets I always hated in high school. Not that I hate poetry or poets at all, more just that I hate picking apart art like that, having to worry about there being a right and wrong answer.” Morinthe sighed softly, breath puffing against the glass again. “Sorry, I’m rambling. I do that.”

“I do not mind. It’s actually very charming, to me anyway.” He says. Solas is up to something; she can tell by the tone in his voice.

“What’s up with the complementing and stuff all the sudden?” Morinthe accuses, lips pursed. “I mean, yeah, you’re usually insufferably infatuated with me, but this seems to be going a bit overboard.”

“Well,” he drawls. “If you are determined to insult yourself nearly every time you speak, someone ought to even out the score.”

“I don’t every time…” Morinthe defends sheepishly.

“Forgive me, my lady, for I have wronged you.” Solas affirms. “You did not do it that time.”

“You are ridiculous, and I am idiot for putting up with this.” Morinthe huffs. She almost considers hanging up on him just to prove a point, but decides against it. That may legitimately hurt his feelings. Morinthe is definitely a bitch, but even she’s not that horrible.

“And the stars themselves sigh for but a chance to witness your every misguided choice.” He smoothly replies. She’ll admit, it does make a couple bump rise on her arms. Only a couple.

“Now you’re just making fun of me.” Morinthe says, glaring into the back of the seat in front of her. It’s got a hideous retro upholstery, orange and blue with zebra stripes of lime green and neon pink. Disgusting.

“You’re pouting again aren’t you?” Solas infers. That’s given her full on shivers now, shit. She silent for a moment too long, apparently, because he continues. “Are you? Morinthe, tell me.”

“So what if I am?” She means to sound defiant, but it only comes out in an excited whisper. “What are you going to do about it?” The deep, guttural rumble, despite being through the microphone, seems to resonate all the way to the tips of her toes and fingers. Morinthe’s grin tugs her lip between her teeth, and she presses her thighs together.

“Which hotel are you staying in?” He calmly demands.

“You know, I may actually be tired or something after a nine hour bus ride.” Morinthe comments, though it’s just a part of the game really. There’s no one in this world in any other that can drag her off of this train now, sleep depriving as it may be.

“We do not have to stay up for long.” He murmurs. “As long as you give me enough time to bite your lip until it’s so swollen you will not be able to do anything beside pouting for a few hours, at the very least.” Part of what makes it so damn hot is how nonchalantly he says it, like he’s talking about making time to grab eggs from the grocery store on his way back from work before dinner starts.

“I might be able to fit that into my schedule.” Morinthe replies, sounding more meek and scandalized than the sex goddess she may have imagined in her head. Damn it all; can she do anything right? “Is Ser Perfect awake enough to avoid driving himself off the road at this hour?”

“I am now.” He chuckles. Morinthe can hear him popping joints, loudly. How tense is this poor guy, anyway? “Though I may have trouble focusing.”

“Hey,” Morinthe tuts. “You can’t get your hands on this if you’re in an accident big guy. I will never forgive you if you get yourself hurt thinking about me. I can’t deal with that kind of guilt on my hands.”

“I give you my word, ma asha.” Solas breathes. “It is only a thirty minute drive, after all.”

“But, aren’t the roads really icy this time of year?” Morinthe realizes. Her teeth dig into her lip decidedly less enthusiastically than they had before.

“Morinthe,” He insists. Why does he have to say her name like that, damn it? “I live here.”

Well, he does have a point. She gives him the address and room number, and then adds in a hurried tone. “But don’t head out into the cold just yet. I won’t be there for another hour at least. You can go back to bed for a little bit first.”

“Alright,” he hums. Solas sounds pleased, though he isn’t using the sexy voice anymore. Well, his voice is sexy in general, but this is the same way he talked when he started to act all funny the night they’d been, a thing. It’s the one that makes him sound like a swooning cartoon character with hearts in his eyes. Now what’s brought this on? Shit, she’s doting isn’t she? That doesn’t have to mean anything, though. They’re friends; of course she cares about him enough not to want him to drive off the road. That’s it.

“I will see you there.” He says. “Until then, vhenan’ara.”

Solas is the one who hangs up, thankfully, as Morinthe probably would’ve sat there slack jawed until things got awkward. Alright, maybe she’s overreacting. After all, it may be kind of close to that word, may even have the same root as that word, but it isn’t the same thing. Well, not exactly anyway. Nothing to worry about.

When she does eventually get to the hotel room, she honestly considers calling it all off, horny as crap or no. It’s not horrible by any means, but the room is cramped and smells a bit of mildew. In comparison to their last venue, it’s a definite downgrade.

Morinthe sets her backpack down on the end of the bed. Then, she goes into the tiny bathroom and washes her face. My goodness, she thinks, someone is looking remarkably un-sexy this evening. Probably hadn’t been the best idea to call her friend the night after getting blackout drunk and passing out on the kitchen floor. She looks like she hasn’t slept in about a week and a half. “Better leave the lights out,” She snorts, splashing her face again.

She ends up with her knees against her chest and thumbs twiddling together in the center of the bed. The only channel she can get is for kids, and she spends about an hour watching an asinine show about a stupid girl who’s secretly a pop star or something. She kind of feels embarrassed for both everyone involved and herself, despite having no part in the matter. The eerie quiet broken only by the sounds of sirens in the distance heading toward some disaster she’s unaware of. She’d have started gnawing on her nails again if there’d been anything left to chew on.

Better to ask forgiveness than permission, that’s the rule she lives by. More often than not, though, the one she needs to apologize to is herself. Between the shitty laugh track from the fake studio audience and the bad dialogue, the doubts slip through. What if he changes his mind? How about if she wants to change her mind, can she admit to him that she can’t go through with it? Solas would understand, of course he would, he always does, but he’d be hurt. Doesn’t she want this, though, want him? This is all just way too much thinking, she decides. She shouldn’t do it so damn much. Some, such as her previous roommate, might suggest that she doesn’t include enough consideration before she does something, but that’s too hard. Either she goes flying in without a thought or spends all night tossing and turning, no in between. So she sets up about clearing her mind and replacing it with the void of the sitcom until a rapping of knuckles against the door jerks her out of her meditation. Limb by limb, she uncurls herself and creeps her way over to the door.

She only has to get onto her toes a little bit to peek through peephole. As Morinthe had assumed, it is not a serial killer on the other side (as far as she knows, anyway) but indeed her shiny-headed friend.

Morinthe opens the door, and for a second they just stare at each other in awkward silence. Rather than try to start a conversation, Morinthe opts for another route. She wraps her arms around him and buries her face between his pectorals. Perfect height, really, to snuggle into. There’s tiny snow flurries sticking to him, and those are a little uncomfortable. It’s really only a minor problem in the grand scheme of things.

Solas returns the embrace without missing a beat, and he rests his butt chin on her head. “See?” She mumbles against the cotton. “Just like I said. You give the best hugs.”

“I believe it was you who offered this one, however.” He replies. Morinthe moves her face away just enough to look at him, and Solas gently tucks a lock of hair, the one that always falls into her face, behind her ear.

“Well, in court it’s my word against yours.” Morinthe jibes. She snorts at the notion and shakes her head. “Although, I guess we’re both just secondary citizens at the end of the day.”

“Are you pressing charges now, then?” Solas asks, resting his forehead against hers. “And I’ve barely even touched you yet. What precisely is my crime?”

Morinthe glares at him playfully. “Affectionate harassment. I am a strong, independent woman, and I don’t have to stand for your romantic advances. I have a right to a strictly sexual relationship, damn it.”

“Apologies, ma asha, but I am an incurable reprobate in that regard. I assure you, I’ve tried and failed to correct my inappropriate behavior, but to no avail.” He replies, and he lifts her hand to press an insidious kiss against her knuckles. Solas folds both of his hands over fingers and caresses the back of it with his thumb. “In all honesty however, if I do make you uncomfortable, tell me please.”

“And there he goes again…” Morinthe sighs, turning away with her hand still in his. She pulls him into the room, and the door clicks closed behind them.

“I’ve heard of this show.” He comments as Solas sets his open jacket down on a chair in the corner. “I was not aware that you were a fan.”

“Ha,” she huffs. “If not paying attention to it for ten minutes in a hotel room makes me a fan, then sure. It’s really stupid, though, even by kid show standards.” Morinthe sits cross legged on the end of the bed, and she stares at her toes. She sees him kick his shoes off in the corner of her vision. Then, the mattress creaks, and a hand comes to rest on her knee. Morinthe traces patterns in his freckles and the dozens of tiny, pale scars that cover his fingers. She turns his palm over by his thumb, and Morinthe sets her right hand against it. “You have such long fingers.” She murmurs. “Have you ever played piano?”

“I know how to, yes, but I haven’t in in years.” He replies.

“My first boyfriend did.” Morinthe reflects. “He played for us at our rehearsals. He was a dwarf, and it might have been weird if I wasn’t so short. I was only a little taller than he was. We were only a thing for about two weeks.”

Solas hums thoughtfully. “That is the way of things when one is young.”

“He’s the only boyfriend I’ve ever had, you know, aside from this kid I got engaged to when I was five.” Morinthe admits, and she’s not entirely certain why. “We kissed twice, and both were on the cheek. I’m not sure if it really even counted.”

“Did it matter to you?” Solas asks. He leaves his palm underneath hers, but his other fingers trail over her thigh. “I guess. Everything seems like more of a big deal when you’re a kid.” Morinthe shrugs it off. “It’s not important now, not in the grand scheme of things. It’s weird, really. I’ve been with so many people since then, much more interesting ones who didn’t chew with their mouths open too, but I still remember him, eight years later.”

“So it did, then.” Solas says. Morinthe self consciously looks at the child star trying and failing to act as he continues. “It counted.”

Morinthe sighs, and she curls into his side. He wraps his arm around her. Warm, so wonderfully warm, even though he’s the one who’s just come in out of the snow. “You know, this is significantly less sexy than that phone call had lead me to believe. I’ll sue you for false advertising after the harassment one goes through.” She murmurs into his collarbone.

“You were the one who initiated the cuddling.” He replies matter of factly.

“Cuddling…” Morinthe chuckles. “It sounds so weird when you say that word. Too casual. Can’t you think of a more posh synonym?”

“...Tender embracing, perhaps?” He muses, a finger on his chin. “A forty minute drive through traffic and snow, followed by another ten spent trying to find this hotel, also served to cool my labido significantly.”

“But you still came anyway…” Morinthe mumbles. She’s so damn tired, and he’s like lying on a giant teddy bear. He’s breathing and has a heart beat, though, so it’s even better.

“After going through all the effort, do you really think I’d turn back?” He softly laughs, rubbing her arm. “And I could not give up the chance to see you.”

“You really care, don’t you?” Morinthe whispers. “I don’t understand it, don’t think I’ll ever understand. Why me?”

He breathes, and he sounds as beat and worn out as she feels. “I do not know how to answer that right now. I am sorry.”

“S’okay,” Morinthe yawns. The shirt is somewhat slippery, and she ends up slowly but surely edging her way into lying across his lap. The T.V. show isn’t so bad from this angle, she thinks. His hands aren’t soft-- they’re scratchy and calloused, but it feels nice when he starts to pet her hair. Hopefully it isn’t too gross; she really needs a shower. Solas doesn’t seem to mind, at least.

“What made you stop loving yourself?” He asks in turn. Morinthe squeezes her eyes shut, but she doesn’t flinch away from him. An answer isn’t required, that’s an unspoken agreement. She hadn’t pressed him, after all. For some reason, though, Morinthe wants to say it. Solas is just such a good listener, and there are words that buzz and claw at the insides of her skull that beg every second to be let loose. She’s never done it, though, not even when there’d been no one to hear.

“I…” she whispers, covering her eyes with her palm. “Do you know anything about Clan Lavellan?”

“I know of them, but beyond the name and general location my knowledge is limited.” He admits. His forefinger traces the green branches on her temple thoughtfully.

“We used to be pretty standard as far as clans go, but in the past ten years or so things have changed a whole lot.” Morinthe begins to explain. “There were some extremists who popped up amongst the younger generation, the one before mine, and they gained a lot of power in the clan. As the elders started to lose their ability to regulate more and more, they took over.”

“What did these extremists believe, precisely?” Solas asks.

“They’re exactly the kind of people who would drive you absolutely crazy.” Morinthe chuckles humorlessly. “They’re based around a real problem, the idea that Dalish and elves in general are being steadily assimilated more and more until not even what little we know of our own culture remains. It’s their solution to that issue that’s horrible, you see.

“They decided that the only way to preserve the ‘true elvhen’” Morinthe says, pausing to add the ceremonial air quotes. “Would be to bring all of the clans together and form an isolated state, far away from any other races, humans in particular. All fine in theory, what’s the harm in letting people live away from others if they please? But that’s the thing, though, they rob their people of that choice.” Morinthe plays with a loose thread on the inner seam of his pants.

“They brainwash people, they really do. Not in the crazy way you see in movies, but mostly by propoganda and fear mongering. They’ve turned the entire world into a horrible place with only one refuge from the horrors of shemlen. It’s not a family, not anymore. It’s a cult, and thankfully most of the other clans recognize that. They’ll never get that perfect state they want, but it’s still a prison for the couple thousand who do live on the compound.”

“But you escaped.” Solas infers. Morinthe glances up at him through her lashes to gage his reaction. His face is mostly unreadable, but there is a tightness around his eyes.

“Yeah,” Morinthe breaths. “I was old enough not to have been born into the madness, so to speak. I had enough of a mind of my own to fight back. It was hard, but I got out with nothing save one change of clothes, a bus ticket, and fifty dollars. I think I’ve managed pretty well, all things considered.”

“How old were you, really? You said that you were eighteen before, but…”

“Can’t see me putting up with that for so long?” Morinthe snorts. “Alright, yeah. I left two days before my seventeenth birthday. I have never looked back.”

“You didn’t get a chance to graduate did you?” Her eyes are closed, but they don’t catch the single tear that buds and threatens to fall. He wipes it away with his thumb before it ever has the chance.

“I did get my GED,” Morinthe supplies. “But I’ve never really been able to get back into school sense. I probably could’ve gotten a scholarship if I’d stayed in school, but…”

“You had reason to drop out, Morinthe.” He assures her.

“But I wasn’t the one who made the decision!” Morinthe snaps. She startles him, clearly, because she does say it pretty loudly. It surprises herself a little, honestly. He hushes her as her breathing starts to get heavy. She always gasps like she’s just escaped drowning when she gets like this. It’s hard, but she does manage to get it back to some level of control again. “I, I…” Morinthe stutters through the hand she’s clasped over her face. “I talked back too much, got into a little trouble with the law, just normal teenage bullshit. A lot of it was spurred on by my best friend at the time, but I should have know better.”

She takes a deep breath in, if only to avoid losing the capability to form proper sentences. “They said I was being lead astray by the shemlen I went to school with, that I would become a flat ear if they didn’t do something about it. So they took me out to be ‘home-schooled’, but I wasn’t taught at all. The federal government is too afraid of being sued again to involve themselves in what goes on in the reservation. They haven’t got anyone to hold them accountable.”

“I wasn’t allowed to leave the reservation or talk to any of my friends. Not until they knew they could ‘trust’ me again.” Morinthe bites out. “I hate them, I hate them all. They ruined my life, did it on purpose. If I couldn’t get through school, I couldn’t get a job, then I’d have to stay and be their damn slave. Now it’s over, all of it. I can never have a real career. They took everything from me.”

“No they haven’t, lethallan,” he coaxes. He’s petting her hair again, and it does calm her down some. “Your heart beats, your lungs draw air, albeit with some difficulty.” Morinthe laughs pitifully at that, and she dabs at her eyes with the hem of her shirt. “You are still so young, Morinthe.” Solas continues. “It is hard, but, you are not a weak person. There are ways to work through this, I should know. You’ve come so far already. If anyone can salvage this, you can.”

Morinthe sucks in a shaky gasp. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it, then.” She pulls her hand away from her face. As she’d thought; it’s covered in snot. “I’m gross now, aren’t I? Don’t lie.”

“You probably could use a shower, yes.” Solas admits sheepishly. “It has been a very long day, though.”

“Hmph!” Is Morinthe’s only reply. She rolls off of him and starts staggering toward the bathroom.

“Given the circumstances, you are still very lovely.” Solas assures her, but she can hear the laughter in his voice despite his attempts to restrain it. Once in the tiny broom closet of a washroom, Morinthe peels her clothes off piece by piece. Her pants are relatively easy to rid herself of, but halfway through pulling her shirt over her head, her arms suddenly feel like lead weights. She lets them hang in the air with a defeated groan. Just as all hope seems to have been lost, the shirt is tugged the rest of the way over. “Thank you,” Morinthe sighs. He unclips her bra next, so it’s just a matter of shrugging out of that and peeling off her underwear after. Solas manages to maneuver around her and start the tub to filling. He’s egregiously over-adorned, however.

“Are you not getting in?” Morinthe asks, cocking her head to the side. Solas pecks her on the mouth, following it with a firm nip to her lower lip.

“You’re pouting again. The tub is rather small, and I was wondering if I could…”

“What?” Morinthe prods, curling a lock of hair around her finger. He takes that same lock and lets it rest across his own hand.

“May I wash your hair?” She laugh again, though a bit raspy; he tends to have that effect on her. “Sure, whatever. Knock yourself out.”

“That is such an odd turn of phrase.” He chuckles. “Though it may be a strong possibility if you push me again. This place is rather precariously cramped.”

Morinthe concedes and sits down in the basin, even though the water isn’t quite warm enough yet. It heats up quickly, though, and soon she’s settled with her knees drawn up in the middle of the tub.

“I don’t have any decent shampoo,” Morinthe realizes bitterly. She picks up one of the tiny complementary ones and a bar of soap from the nook and hands them to him. “We’ll have to make do.”

Solas pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, and she’s glad she can only see that in her periphery. As he takes the soap out of its packaging, Morinthe dunks her head underneath the water, just to get that out of the way. Then he gets his hands on her shoulders, and Morinthe melts. She crosses her arms over her legs and lets her head flop forward onto them without complaint or hesitation. She knows the patterns he’s tracing with his fingers, the branches that trail over her shoulders, arms, hips, and legs.

“Do you like them?” Morinthe murmurs. “I designed them myself.”

“Really?” He says. Solas drags his finger down across her ribs, and Morinthe can’t help the jerk that rips through her. “I wasn’t the one who invented the it, of course, but a full body vallaslin isn’t ‘traditional’, so of course they spat at the idea. It was what I wanted, though, and an extra hundred dollars of bribe money can take a girl a long way with the one who inks you.” Morinthe explains.

“Hmm,” he pinches her flank, and Morinthe nearly jumps out of her skin. “Stop that!” Morinthe yelps, smacking his hand away. “Or your hair-washing privileges will be revoked.”

They go on in silence for a while before Solas breaks the quiet. “Morinthe?”

“Hmm?”

“You explained why you hate them, but not why you hate yourself.” He murmurs. With his hand he cups the water and starts to rinse the suds off of her back. “Mhmf,” Morinthe grunts pitifully.

“Ah, I see then. I will not press the matter.” He replies in a clipped tone.

“Please don’t hate them.” Morinthe pleads. “It’s not all of us, not even a majority. It’s just the assholes who scream the loudest, and they make everyone look bad.” Morinthe sniffs, wiping at her face. “It’s why I never went public, you know. More than I was afraid of them not caring, I knew the rest of the world would get the wrong idea. It wouldn’t just be the extremists, but Dalish everywhere that would be targeted by the media and the law. It would just make everything worse for all of us.”

“But they are still wrong, Morinthe, and they need to be stopped.” Solas sighs. He kneads the shampoo into her hair, starting at the roots and going outward. Funny, almost like he’s done this before.

“I know…” Morinthe whispers. He keeps his promise, though, and he doesn’t bother her about it any more. The hair gets washed, the water is then drained, and Morinthe is wrapped snuggly into a towel.

They go back into the room, and he pulls the blankets back so that they can curl into a cotton and polyester cocoon. Unlike before, they don’t even go through the pretense of having sex. Morinthe ignores the sirens going off in her head, and she lets him smooth his hands over the curvature of her spine and murmur soothing nonsense in her ear.

“Solas…” Morinthe asks his adam’s apple. “What are we?”

“What do you mean? People, elves, insane?” He teases.

“Yeah, well, I know all of that.” Morinthe snorts. “I mean what is this? Are we friends or...what?”

“What would you like us to be?” Solas replies.

“I don’t know, something I guess. Not nothing. I like this, but I don’t understand.” Morinthe admits.

“Well, I suppose you are my something, then.” He answers with a small shrug.

“And you’re my something too?” Morinthe chuckles.

“It is my honor, ma asha.” He rumbles. “I would be your anything.”

She means to smack his arm, but the action turns out to be rather limp and pathetic. “You silly ass.”

“I was under the impression that you were rather partial to it.” He purrs, and he presses a kiss to her crown.

“No, it sucks. I don’t want to bite it at all.” Morinthe says petulantly. “We didn’t really get the chance for that, though. Pity.”

“We can make up for it in the morning.” He assures her. “Let’s just rest for now. You need it.”

“M’kay,” Morinthe slurs. He tugs the covers over their heads, and they are swallowed completely by darkness. “Hey Solas?” He grunts in mild interest. “Promise not to tell anyone about…” she trails off.

“About what?” He says. “I know nothing.”

“Thank you.” Morinthe whispers. 

“Always,” he replies, as if it’s as obvious as the sun rising in the morning. Solas seems to have forgotten her rule about ‘always’s and ‘forever’s, but she lets it slide. He’s a lawless man, this one. It is with a crestfallen sigh that she is drawn into sleeping. She’s never going to be able to live this down.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun is shining in all directions and every color, splitting and fragmenting over her skin with the softest of shimmers. He hides his face against her throat, but it isn’t as warm as it should be. A memory, then, something once treasured. Now, however, he can’t help but be disappointed. How can a hollow shade live up to the real thing, after all?

 

After the past week of grading papers, however, Solas really ought to sleep.

 

The memory laughs, a sound so rare in waking now. The current Morinthe usually only does so in a self deprecating or nervous way, hardly ever in the unburdened manner she does in his dreams. She’s always been troubled, but she’d never let it rule her so before.

 

Oh well. They’re working on it, slowly but surely. Assuming she doesn’t walk out and never speak to him again.

 

He breathes heavily, squeezing his eyes shut.

 

“Vhenan?” The shadow asks. It’s lovely to hear her voice say it, the word he has to constantly stop himself from using. She’d probably be on the first flight to the Anderfels if he’d be foolish enough to let that slip. But it’s all he can think every time he sees the way she catches her lip as she cautiously smiles, the flash of her throat as she breaths, even the way she ever so slightly rolls on the balls of her feet when she wants to ask a question. It is a monumental effort, to say the least.

 

“Seeing you again has not exactly been as I imagined.” He confesses. It won’t be upset with him, being only a construction made from his various memories. Solas feels guilty regardless.

 

It hums in response. It begins to stroke his head, as even now she’s oft. “We’ll be alright, love. You just need to be patient. She’s just at a difficult place in her life right now.”

 

“She doesn’t have to love me again, but…” he sighs, burying his face into the phantom’s collarbone. “I just want to be in her life. Does that make me selfish?”

 

“You are selfish, Solas.” It reminds him. “That’s why we’re in this situation at all. You never had to get involved in the first place.”

 

This happens sometimes. The real Morinthe, past or present, would never say such a thing, at least not in earnest. Sometimes his own malicious thoughts would slip into the illusion.

 

“You know that Cullen had his eye on her too. He made her smile. They probably could’ve been happy together. A home, with an army of little round eared babes. Maybe even a mabari.” It jeers. “No, though, you couldn’t let that happen. You weren’t content to just cut her life short, you had to make every second she had left absolute misery.”

 

The fingers on his scalp feel harder, almost claw-like.

 

“That’s just what you do. She gave you her heart once, and you did nothing but stomp on it.” It begins to laugh, her voice warping as though it had suddenly endured seventy years of chain smoking. “I wonder if she’d be better off running while she still can. She’s right to be frightened of you. I pity anyone who dares to call you ‘vhenan’.”

 

The laughter has become hysterical, it rings in his ears and pierces his skull. The skin isn’t soft, or even warm anymore, but sallow and pale.

 

He sits up, all blood draining from his face.

 

“I wonder,” it snickers, teeth turning into fangs as the gums pull away from them. “What will you do with your poor heart this time?”

 

Solas tries to shrink away, but the skinless fingers dig into his shoulders, forcing him to gaze into the black pits of the rotting corpse’s eyes as the last locks of its hair fall out.

 

“Well, _harellan?!_ ” It shrieks.

 

* * *

 

Solas shoots up, sheets twisted around him. He’s drenched in sweat, due in part to having fallen asleep in his clothes. He tugs his shirt over his head without bothering to unbutton it at all, and he throws it to the floor.

 

He sags forward with a shuddering sigh. Solas squeezes his eyes shut, but it’s not tight enough to keep a few small tears from leaking out of the corners. He quickly swipes them away as the other side of the bed begins to shift.

 

“Mhm?” She mumbles as she sits up. Solas hesitantly looks over his shoulder, and he smiles halfheartedly. Morinthe blearily blinks at him through the darkness. Her disheveled hair falls over her bare shoulders, and for a moment it reminds him of the dream. But no, it’s brown and connected to her scalp, and her high cheek bones are hidden beneath soft skin and flesh, just as they should be.

 

“It’s nothing.” He mumbles, running his hand over his face.

 

“It doesn’t look like nothing.” Morinthe whispers. The sheets slide as she slips up behind him. Her arm curls under his, and she rests her cheek on his shoulder.

 

“A dream, that’s all.” He stiffly assures her. His voice is cold, isn’t it? Yes, he can tell by the way her breath catches; she’s hurt. She’d opened up to him so much last night, more than he could have ever hoped for, and he’s not willing to return the favor. It’s all so complicated, though. How could he possibly explain?

 

“I ah, was just reminded of someone I lost.” He manages.

 

“Oh,” she remarks, easing back into his side again. That’s better. Everything feels so much more manageable with her there, even though she’s the source of his anguish. Funny how life so often works out this way. “I understand. I’m sorry.”

 

“You have,” he breaths through gritted teeth. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

 

“Are you going to be okay?” Morinthe asks.

 

“I usually am,” Solas shakily chuckles. “More or less.”

 

“Hmph,” she huffs. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to track down those dreams of yours and beat the shit out of them. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

 

“I do not doubt it.” He replies.

 

“You know,” she says. He can see the coy smile without having to look. Morinthe presses a kiss to his neck. “Another cure for bad dreams?”

 

“Enlighten me,” he growls. She softly laughs, light and joyful. Nothing like that creature, not at all. She nips at his earlobe playfully.

 

“Not sleeping.” She murmurs.

 

“Hmm,” he rumbles. Small, elegant fingers splay across his chest in rather unsubtle exploration.

 

“And I was promised morning sex, if my memory isn’t failing me again.” Morinthe purrs.

 

“We didn’t get around to that last night, did we?” He reflects. It hadn’t really seemed that important at the time. It doesn’t matter to him, not really. They’re together either way, aren’t they?

 

“Kind of ironic, huh?” Morinthe sighs. “I think that was sort of the entire reason we met up here in the first place.”

  
“No, not for me.” He admits. “Though it is… an enjoyable side benefit.”

 

“Your side benefits seem to involve a lot of crying on my part, I’m not sure whether they’re enjoyable or not. I like you, though.” She murmurs.

 

_You have no idea_ , he thinks bitterly.

 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” She asks again, turning his face to look at her.

 

“I am now,” he breathes against her lips just as he dips into them.

 

“Always glad to help.” Morinthe laughs, pecking him on the nose.

 

He rests his forehead on hers for a moment, lets himself just take her in for a while. Here and now, he asserts. She’s not gone anymore, and he won’t give up the last chance he’ll ever get. He is a selfish man, after all.

* * *

 

She’s sort of like a cat in the afterglow, always has been. Warm, soft, and pliant, tensionlessly draped over his side. If a woman could purr, she certainly would be. He lazily drags his fingers down her spine, sliding over the divots of dimple’s at the base before reaching lower.

 

She jerks in surprise as he grabs a handful of the sizable lump in the blankets. What can he say? He’s a rather simple man at the end of the day.

 

“What’s with you and butts, damn it?” She squeaks indignantly.

 

“Is that a serious question?” He drawls letting his eyes drift closed. “I have no control over what draws my eye.”

 

“You do have control of what you grab with your hand.” Morinthe snorts, relaxing back against his collarbone.

 

“If I had any measure of self control I would not be here.” He says. “I have a class in three hours, and forty papers that I haven’t even touched.”

 

“I’m sorry.” She chimes. “It seems my irresponisibilty is contagious. I am a horrible influence.”

 

“Influence me any way you please.” Solas chuckles. “I can deal with the paperwork.”

 

“We have to get up then, don’t we?” Morinthe sighs dejectedly.

 

“I could always be struck with a sudden illness.” Solas muses, eyes still shut.

 

“No, don’t do that.” Morinthe says. He has to catch the instinctive whine in his throat as she sits up, robbing him of her warmth.

 

“What happened to being irresponsible?” He asks, blindly reaching out to drag her back in, but she deftly avoids him.

 

“You, Ser Big Shot Professor, are not going to shirk your work for my sake.” Morinthe tuts. “You actually have something to lose, unlike me.”

 

She gets out of the bed and heads to the bathroom, probably to find her discarded clothes.

 

“You do not have to get up just yet, Morinthe. It’s only five o’clock.” Solas says as he checks his phone on the nightstand.

 

“That may be so, but I fear my lying around buck naked would be too much of a temptation. Leaving will probably be easier with clothing.” She calls back.

 

“Most likely, yes.” He softly laughs. Goodness, he collegues would barely recognize him like this. Solas has kept up the stern, distant persona rather well. He’s used to it, after all, but it always melts away around her, try as he might to have some distance. Too easy to let the wrong words loose like this.

 

“Do you need a shower or anything?” She asks, peeking her head around the corner. “Washing your hair is out of the question obviously, but maybe I could polish your scalp?”

 

“I will be fine, thank you.” He says. It seems like every joint and even a few he hadn’t realized that he has pop as he sits up.

 

She disappears into the bathroom again, and he can hear the distinct sound of her pulling her hair out with a brush paired along with the necessary cursing foul enough to make a sailor cringe.

 

Solas’ clothes hadn’t been removed per say, just adjusted to fit the circumstance. He re-buttons his shirt and pulls his pants back up before retrieving his belt from off the floor. He’ll have to get back home in time to change shirts at least, as this one is wrinkled miserably. It’ll do for the drive over at least.

 

He relishes in the moment of being allowed to walk barefoot across the carpet. Solas leans on his arm against the doorframe of the bathroom as she continues to hack away. He’s certain to stand just so that the mirror doesn’t quite capture him behind her, wondering how long it will take her to notice on her own. Unfortunately, he had not been as subtle as he’d thought.

 

“So do you teach grad, undergrad, or what?” She idly asks, glancing at him over her shoulder. Not even a flinch, damn.

 

“A bit of both here and there,” He replies. “The undergrad students can be difficult sometimes, but the graduate work is more difficult to grade, more intensive. Overall, though, I’d say that graduate classes are my preference. I enjoy a challenge.”

 

“I figured.” She chuckles.

 

“Why’s that?” He inquires with a raised brow.

 

“You seem rather fixated on me, after all.” She flatly says.

 

“I suppose you’re right.” He admits with a shake of his head.

 

“Oh, wait!” She says, suddenly dropping her brush onto the counter. “I almost forgot.”

 

Morinthe quickly maneuvers around him and bends down (from the waist, he notices) to sift through the bag at the end of the bed. She retrieves from it a dark blue mass of knitting, obviously far too large for her, and perhaps even a bit big for himself, and holds it out to him.

 

“Your sweater,” she explains with a sheepish smile. “I stole it from you on accident, sorry.”

 

Solas slides the material through his thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. With a small smile, he gently pushes it back toward her. “Keep it. It’s always been somewhat large on me anyway.”

 

“Well, uh,” she stutters, swiping that lock of her hair out of her face as he’s seen her do countless times before. “It certainly wouldn’t fit me any better.”

 

“Sleep in it.” He suggests with a shrug. Solas moves around her to pluck his discarded coat off of the dresser. “Preferable without anything underneath.”

 

“Oh, um, okay…” she rambles, the sweater pinned against her chest with one hand, the other nervously toying with the end of her hair. It’s so much longer that it ever was before, going halfway down her breast. He’s warmed by the thought that she’s been given that luxury now.

 

“It is rather ironic, isn’t it?” He sighs as he fastens his watch back into place once more.

 

“What?” Morinthe asks. She always looks up through her lashes when she does that, emphasizing their size. It’s probably a major reason he’s slipped up so often around her.

 

“Well,” he chuckles, starting to close in on her. Morinthe backs into the wall, which puts him off a bit. Despite only being comparatively tall to other elves, he does have a tendency to loom at times. Perhaps he is teasing her a bit, but it’s never his intention to frighten her. “I’m allowed to say things that would make most women blush all the way down to their navels without issue, but if I so much as hold your hand you become instantaneously flustered.”

 

“We’re not all cookie cutter copies of each other,” she mutters, looking away. She never wants to meet his gaze for more than a few seconds. It does hurt, he won’t lie, but he’s not about to pressure her into anything too far outside of her comfort zone. She could definitely use a gentle shove or two, though. It is hard to exist in an area so small forever.

 

“It did not mean it as an insult.” Solas assures her. “Though it does frustrate me some, I will admit.”

 

“Why’d I have to be stuck with such a teddy bear?” She asks, rubbing her eyes in exasperation. Apparently the suddenly clench in his chest is evident in his face, because she continues. “I didn’t mean it as an insult, but it does frustrate me sometimes. My life wasn’t simple before you, but it was at least a little less complicated.”

 

“How so?” He presses. She’ll slither out if he doesn’t take the opportunity, he knows. He’s now thankful that he literally has her against the wall as well as metaphorically.

 

‘Hrmm,” she presses the sweater over her face, only her eyes hesitantly peeking out over the blue material. “I have the right to remain silent, don’t I?”

 

“You aren’t in Orlais anymore, I’m afraid.” He counters.

 

“Then I claim sovereignty.” She bites back.

 

“You must have the recognition of other countries to become your own independent state as well.” Solas replies in exasperation. “Is this really necessary Morinthe? It isn’t as though you will spontaneously combust.”

 

“You don’t know that…” she mumbles in defeat. Her shoulders sag, and she lets the sweater fall to her side. It does clench into a tight fist, though, as she looks toward the floor. “I like you, okay? I don’t want you to go away, but you terrify the shit out of me. You make me want and feel things that I don’t want to want, if that makes any sense.”

 

“It makes perfect sense.” He replies. Solas tucks her hair out of her face again, reveal the uncertain eyes underneath. “More than you know.”

 

“I just need to think about things.” Morinthe sighs. “I don’t want to, but I have to. This is all mostly because I’m a childish coward who can’t handle commitment. I’m like a T.V. movie useless lowlife, holding the beautiful protagonist back from inevitably pursuing her far more suitable love interest. Gender swapped, of course.”

 

“The first step on the road to recovery is admitting you have a problem.” He offers. “This is only my ignorant and uninformed opinion, but you seem like you want to change.”

 

“I’m kind of like an addict, or someone with an eating disorder or something.” She replies with a shrug. “It’s not like I want to live like this, moving all over the place, hurting anybody stupid enough to try to help me, but I can’t stop. I mean, who says to themselves, ‘I want to be a flighty, uneducated, irresponsible, idiot who can’t commit to anything and sleeps on benches when I grow up!’” She huffs in irritation, swiping away a tear. “I hate feelings. I’m bad at them.”

 

“May I hug you?” He asks softly.

 

“You are absolutely ridiculous.” She snaps, rolling her eyes nearly into the back of her skull. “Of course you can, you idiot.”

 

He curls around her, and she ducks her head into his collarbone. Maybe, if he holds her tightly enough, he can ward them off, all of the thoughts that plague them both.

 

“I feel so bad about all of this,” she admits. Solas runs circles over the curve of her spine, tracing scars long gone. “Everything always ends up being about me. I feel like I hardly know anything about you at all.”

 

“It’s--”

 

“Complicated, I know.” She sighs. “I just wish you felt like… you could trust me, at least as I much as I do you.”

 

He buries his face in her hair, and what had been gentle hands grow tight, grabbing fistfuls of her shirt.

 

“I have some things I need to think on as well,” he murmurs, his throat tight. “It isn’t that I do not trust you Morinthe, never doubt that. I just… Would you not give me time?”

 

“Sure,” she relents. A hypocrite, that’s all he is. Prying at her boundaries without being willing to let down any of his own. He can’t tell her, not yet, though. She’ll think him mad, absolutely mad, and then she’d be gone forever. Morinthe would have every right to, all things considered.

 

“You’re going to need some time, anyway.” She chuckles. “You’ll be late if you waste any more with me.”

 

“You are never a waste of time.” Solas firmly replies. “This constant self-deprecation is unacceptable, particularly toward one as perfect as you are.”

 

“Perfect?” She snorts. “I think we’ve established I’m far from that. Not even close.”

 

“Perfect,” he reaffirms, holding up his forefinger. A rare moment, she’s actually looking at him for once, an endless sea of grass on a spring afternoon. “Not flawless. They are commonly mistaken for the same thing, but in truth the two could not be further apart.”

 

“You really need to go,” she diverts sheepishly, and she tries to turn away again. Before Morinthe even gets the chance, he cups her face in both hands.

 

“Promise, please.” He insists. “No more of that. Not for me, but for yourself.”

 

Her face screws a bit at first, but eventually she says. “Okay, I’ll try not to. Alright?”

 

“Thank you,” he replies, pressing a swift kiss to her forehead before finally withdrawing. Solas has intruded upon her enough for this morning, he thinks.

 

He makes certain that he has his keys and wallet, and just as he’s turning for the door, something suddenly occurs to him. Solas turns to her again. “You know what you plan to do next, yes?”

 

He can tell by the nervous look on her face what the answer is.

 

“Well, I uh, I was thinking about calling a friend in Denerim I haven’t seen in awhile.” Morinthe says, shifting her weight back and forth on her heels. “I hadn’t really been saving any money; I left kind of suddenly. I should be able to stay here one more night at least, but I don’t really know about after that.”

 

Solas is tempted to sigh, but he knows that will only upset her. Instead he carefully asks, “Do you need a place to stay until you have things sorted out, Morinthe?”

 

She looks at him like he’s suggested she walk a tightrope without a net, eyes wide, sweater clutched to her chest.

 

“I am not asking you to move in with me, Morinthe,” he says. “Just however long you need to figure out what you’re going to do.”

 

“Um,” she deliberates, turning the sweater over in her hands. “Like, the just for the weekend or so?”

 

“If you like.” He provides. “Whatever you want, my door is open either way.”

“I guess…” she carefully says, as if directing it not at him but to some other person, a voice in her mind perhaps. “That would be alright.”

 

Solas can’t help smiling, though he does try to restrain it as best he can.

 

“Have you booked another night or…?”

 

“No, just the one. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to pay for another or not.” She replies with a shrug. “I can check out now, yeah.”

 

She gathers her things, but he can’t read her face. Perhaps she cannot either. It’s worrying, of course, but she seems stable at least. Bag over her shoulder, she joins him at the door. She offers him a small smile, but she looks a little nauseous.

 

“Are you alright?” He asks, placing a hand on her arm.

 

“Y-yeah,” Morinthe stutters, “I’ll be fine.”

 

They walk to the elevator in the sort of dead silence unique to a hotel in the earliest hours of the day. It follows them once they’re inside it as well, and he presses the button for the ground floor. She just stands there for a moment or two, staring into the floor as though awaiting execution.

 

He looks to the door, gives her some time to breathe without him staring. Suddenly, there’s a weight against his shoulder. Solas looks down, and she’s leaning into him, nearly putting all her weight onto him. Without a word, he slips his arm around her back and lets her stay as she is.

 

“Thank you,” she whispers. He doesn’t ask what for, he can tell by her tone. She means for all of it, these strange last few hours.

 

“Likewise,” He softly replies.

 

“I didn’t even do anything.” she fraily chuckles.

 

“No, you truly have, in more ways than you realize.” He tells her as the doors slide open before them. He kisses her temple, and they walk together into the lobby.

 


	4. Chapter 4

She doesn’t know exactly what she’d been expecting, honestly. He is a big shot professor, after all, with a bit of archeology and anthropology on the side. His salary is probably more than that of the average bloke, being the point, but she is still a bit stunned when she steps through the door into his flat.

“Morinthe?” He questions, turning around to find that she’s still standing by the door even once he’s already thrown his  coat over the back of his couch. One of those long, segmented kinds, formed in an L along the wall. There’s no T.V., though, just a coffee table piled high with books, carefully labeled manilla folders filled with papers, and covered in rings from past mugs and late nights.

“It’s just uh, really nice.” Morinthe explains meekly, looking out onto the stereotypical, wall-encompassing window before the city skyline. Haven itself isn’t the real view, however, not so much as the mountains beyond it. The living room itself isn’t actually that much larger than average, but the window makes it seem that way.

“I suppose,” he replies with a shrug. “I mostly selected it for the location.”

She’s still in disbelief that she’s even come here in the first place. Morinthe’s seen the shows before, where hitchhiking girls will go off with some man they don’t know to end up gutted in a alleyway somewhere, but she’d done it anyway. If he is planning to kill her, she rationalizes, he would have gotten it over with sometime over the thirty minute drive over. Plenty of snowy wasteland to hide a body in, after all.

“I have to get into the shower before I go,” he says, slipping out of his shoes again. “You can set your bag down wherever for now.”

Her backpack seems a bit gross to her all of the sudden, not that it’s dirty really, just shabby. Out of place. Morinthe reluctantly placed it by the front door, as far away from the rest of it all as possible. Next to the umbrella with the one broken arm. Good.

She awkwardly crosses her arms. It’s freezing in here all of the sudden, and Morinthe can’t even will her joints to move. Solas looks at the ceiling, shakes his head, and then tugs her gently into the room by her elbow.

“You can go wherever you please, my secrets guard themselves.” He chuckles, though it seems a little nervous to her. “I’ve not much here in terms of food or entertainment, I’m afraid. I need to go grocery shopping soon, but you’re free to anything you can scrounge up.”

He lets her go and vanishes away into the open door on the other side of the room, presumably to go shower. Morinthe stands still in the middle of the white carpet for a moment or two before she finally works up the courage to snoop around a bit.

She takes her shoes off, so that she’ll make no sound as she ducks through the archway to her left and into a small kitchen.

“Granite countertops,” she marvels, running her hand along them. “Though not much of them, would be a nightmare trying to cook with more than one person in this place.”

The fridge is, as he’s said, mostly empty, save for a few bottles of water, a little bit of some fancy looking cheese, celery, and a bottle of wine in one of the drawers. What really throws her off, though, is the one lonely can of whipped cream on the bottom shelf. What does this man live off of, the natural energy of the universe?

The pantry is slightly less desolate, at least. Some crackers, for the cheese she assumes, bread, no tea or coffee, but one thing she definitely hadn’t expected. With a smile, she snatches a packet out of the box and sets about finding a mug.

“This is what you’re for then?” Morinthe asks the aerosol can as she tops off the cup of hot chocolate. “No marshmallows though, damn.”

The couch is black and thankfully not leather, so she feels comfortable enough sitting on it with her mug. Glancing over the rings on the table again, she snickers at the image of him austerely grading papers with a cup filled with whipped cream in one hand and a red pen in the other. 

She’s still cold despite the warm drink, so she grabs the coat he’s left over the back of the couch and uses it as a makeshift blanket. He’ll need it back soon, but she has at least until the shower stops running in the other room. Morinthe might ask him for a blanket later.

Morinthe’s too comfortable now, curled up in the nook of the L, to find herself something to read for the moment, so instead she settles for watching the rolling clouds as the sky grows brighter and brighter shades of blue.

“What am I doing?” She asks herself, a hand on her forehead. Way to keep things low key, why not get matching bracelets? That thought brings her mind traitorously different kinds of jewelry, so she washes it away as quickly as she can with another gulp of hot chocolate.

He’s been nothing but cordial, and she knows that he won’t go back on his word. Solas will let her leave whenever, but she may not behave so well. Then again, what is behaving for her? Running around aimlessly until she ends up dead in a dumpster somewhere? Her rules, despite having lived by them for eight years now, seem less and less logical by the day, if they ever were to begin with. Perhaps she’d always known, but merely isn’t running from that fact anymore.

So, she chooses not to think anymore, and instead she lets herself melt into the corner nook. Ten minutes later, the shower cuts off, and he comes back into the room with a new shirt and pants on.

“Hello,” she softly greets, raising her mug to him. It’s mostly empty now, unfortunately.

“I will probably need that back.” Solas tells her, cocking his head to the side.

“Hmm,” Morinthe sighs. “I just got comfortable too.”

Solas turns back through the door and returns with an exceedingly fluffy throw, and they make a trade.

“Will you be alright here for awhile? I do not usually come back around for lunch, but I can.” He says, shrugging back into the coat.

“No, don’t do anything you wouldn’t normally, not for my sake.” Morinthe quickly averts. “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

“I’ll see you later then?” Solas says, his voice lifting in question.

It bewilders her a little, but then she realizes. Of course, he thinks she might just decide to up and vanish. She wouldn’t put it past herself.

“Yes.” Morinthe answers with what she hopes is a reassuring smile. He returns it, thankfully, and before he goes, he pecks her on the cheek again. What shocks her most is how little it bothers her anymore.

“Later, yes.” He sighs. It’s very flattering to have someone look at you like that. More than she deserves, she thinks. She doesn’t say it though. She’s made a promise to at least keep her negativity to herself, after all.

“Have a nice day.” Morinthe calls over the back of the couch as he turns to leave. He looks back to her with his hand on the knob, and he has a strange look on his face then. It’s like he’s torn between running back to her, breaking out into a song, and checking himself into a mental hospital. She can’t imagine how she could’ve possibly earned it, but it’s nice.

After he leaves, she stays put until the mug is empty again. Nosiness beckons for her to leave the comforts of her Solas-scented cocoon, and soon enough she’s up and about. Her first order of business: she has to know for certain whether or not he really doesn’t have a television. She wouldn’t put it past him, but she has to be sure.

There’s no cabinets or anything to hide one in the living room, and the kitchen hadn’t had once either, though anyone who would put one there has to be insane as far as she’s concerned. So, it’s down to the bedroom, or whatever other rooms were tucked away in this place.

There’s a third door by the far end of the couch that she hasn’t been through yet, so she tries there first. On the other side is a hallway, and it leads on one end to another archway into the kitchen, and on the opposite is what she assumes to be a second bedroom door by the position along with two more, one across and the other at the very end of the hallway.

The side door is just a closet, and all that’s in there is a jacket, a vacuum, and two pairs of shoes. So, Morinthe goes for the one at the end. She turns the knob, only for it to click irritatingly.

“So they do keep themselves…” Morinthe mutters. “He better not be making a woman suit or something in there. All the nice guys always have to turn out to be serial killers eventually, don’t they?”

Morinthe doubts he’s serious enough about his sports to keep the T.V. locked in the back, so she goes for the bedroom next, having nowhere else left.

The bed’s huge, too big for the room really. Doesn’t matter to her, there’s enough space elsewhere. Considering the nature of their current relationship, which she reminds herself is primarily supposed to be sexual, it’s a great matter of concern for her. Carefully, she pokes the mattress, silently ‘ohing’ at how easily it sinks in. With a mischievous smile, Morinthe glances around her, mostly for the formality. Nobody is going to catch her.

She leaps into the center of the bed, almost being suffocated by the thick green comforter. Comfiness confirmed. She peeks underneath the bedspread, and she counts a total of five layers of blankets. Solas is warm enough on his own, she’d think he wouldn’t need it really. Maybe it’s that big damn window, lets all the cold air in. No insulation there.

It’d probably be like a perfect little burrow, completely snug and hidden away from the world and its troubles. She’s definitely tempted, but would she be able to pull herself out again? Probably not, she hadn’t exactly gotten much sleep after getting into bed so late and back on her feet so early. Is finding the television really that important anyway, though? It’s not like she really cares that much.

Isn’t she supposed to be calling her friends, though? Making arrangements, planning on getting out here? It seems like the most pertinent issue, could probably get things settled within the next day or two, and the faster she can get on it the sooner she’ll be able to get out of here and clear her head.

The again, though… She runs her fingers over the soft sheets. The comforter feels like it’s filled with feathers too. Maybe she could put it off just a few hours. What’s the rush, anyway? It’s not so bad here, not bad at all.

“Damn it,” Morinthe sighs. She kicks her jeans off, leaving them on the floor along with her bra. Morinthe will be up again before he gets back, it’s not like she sleep all day. Not at all.

She curls up in the center, under all five of those covers. Being of the naturally freezing persuasion, it’s absolute bliss. Combine this with the fluffy pillows and the overwhelming Solas smell, an undefinable and yet distinct musk, she’s comatose in a matter of minutes.

When she’s startled awake again, it’s by heavy knocking on the door. She tries to sit up, but Morinthe’s pinned again. She sighs in fond exasperation; so she has slept the day away after all. Solas obviously hasn’t noticed the hammering at all, as his face is still contentedly buried into the hair at the nape of her neck.

Morinthe, now that she think about it, does vaguely remember him coming home. She’d probably only been barely awake at the time, but she recalls the subtle creak of the bed and sliding of the sheets as he’d spooned up against her.

“You sap,” she grumbles. Morinthe does try to move, but she is of course met with resistance. She pulls and squirms, tries to shrug his arms off, but all of this only make the vicegrip tighter, like a slip knot.

“Solas!” She eventually snaps. There’s nothing for it, she’s tried the nice way, but the cuddle monster must be roused.

“Mmph?” He responds, brows furrowing.

“Solas, there’s someone at the door. They sound like they mean business.” Morinthe says.

“Hmm…” he rumbles with a grimace, eyes still closed. After a moment or two of deliberation, he decides, “Don’t care.”

“Solas…” she grunts as he tugs her, somehow, even closer. Morinthe can’t even turn around at this point. “Please, at least look who it is.”

“They can come back later, or text me if it is so important.” He growls. “It is Friday evening, and I am not bothering with it. Any of it.”

“You’re really stressed out, huh?” She murmurs, letting herself relax a bit to combat how tense he suddenly is. He only nods into her hair in response. “You didn’t have to invite me over if it’s too much, you know. You’re not obligated to…”

“No,” he says suddenly, “No please, stay. It isn’t taxing for me, not at all.”

The hammering stops eventually. Hand probably started aching, she thinks.

“Why don’t we destress tonight, then?” Morinthe offers. “If I’m good at anything, it’s not caring.”

“I don’t know about that.” He murmurs, dragging his fingers up and down her arm. It’s not just for her benefit, she realizes, for he seems to relax more. Sort of like how a person pets a cat. “You are a very compassionate person.”

“Well,” she says, cheeks growing warm. “I care about other people, yeah. I meant problems. Would you like to just have fun, relax I mean?”

“How would suggest we do that, then?” He rumbles. His hand slips under her shirt and slides over her stomach next, which does tickle a bit. Then again, almost everything tickles her.

“First we need to go get snacks, because your fridge is ridiculously empty. Something bad for us, no celery. What’s something you really have fun doing?”

“You.” he chuckles, dipping a finger into her belly button. “Forgive me, that was crude, but when an opportunity presents itself…”

“Yes, yes, we’ll get to that.” Morinthe scoffs. “I meant something other than that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, but we’re not exactly lacking in that area. Would you like to talk about what’s happened?”

“It isn’t that great of a deal, only the usual dramatics.” he assures her softly. “Just the usual dramatics. The ivory tower is a prison of combating egos. Never teach.”

“Would you like to just lie here a while?” Morinthe offers. She’s not particularly tired at this point, but she’s willing to sit still. He only nods slowly against her scalp in response. “Okay, but can I have just a second to go grab my phone? I need to text some people.”

Solas is only moodily silent for a moment, but he gives her another squeeze before releasing the death grip.

“I said just a second, mopey.” Morinthe laughs, and she’s somehow able to drag herself out of the sinking mattress. She swiftly makes her way back to the living room to grab her phone out of her purse, zipped up in her bag on top of her clothes, and returns shortly after. It’s a relief once she’s back in the cave; her butt had been cold without any insulation.

The snuggle beast’s paws drag her back against his chest, and they kindly settle around her ribs so that her arms can be free.

Dorian hasn’t texted her, but that’s to be expected. He’s still piss-apointed at her, as he has every right to be. An ‘I’m sorry’ is what she wants to send, though she decides against it. Too soon, let him stew for a while.

Morinthe sifts through her contacts, faces flash across her mind’s eye. Would Josephine be willing to take her in? No, not right now, she has her sister home again, trying to pressure her into letting her go to art school now. She’s stressed enough as it is, and the moment she’d learn that Morinthe was wandering again she’d feel obligated to drop everything for her, as she always does. She can’t do that to her; the woman has enough to deal with already.

She keeps going down the list, but no, no, no. This is always the hardest part, finding someone to burden with her. It’s horrible, really, like she’s a walking talking bother to the whole damn world. They don’t feel that way, as far as they’ve told her, but that’s what it feels like. Makes her wish she’d never been born.

“What’s wrong?” He murmurs. “You’re very tense all of the sudden.”

“Just hard, getting things all into place.” She sighs. “Always feel so bad about even asking.”

He kisses her shoulder. “They care about you, I am sure. They’ll understand.”

“Hmmp,” Morinthe snorts. “That’s rich coming from you. If you had it your way, they’d all turn me out, every single one.”

“Is it wrong of me to want to be with you?” He asks, but he shakes his head. “No, I already know the answer.”

“It is…” she whispers. “Nice to feel wanted, I suppose. Though you’ll get tired of me eventually, I’m sure.”

“What did we say about self deprecation?” He says, poking her in the side.

“Yeah, yeah.” She mutters. “Right back at you, though. There’s nothing wrong with you, not really. It’s mostly just me and my stupid irrational brain.”

“So, if you were too, perhaps, ah…” Solas trails off, and she can practically feel how hot his face is against her neck. “No, nevermind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

It doesn’t take a genius to tell where his line of thought had been going, but she doesn’t say anything. He’s trying not to make this any more awkward than it already is. Morinthe can’t help but chuckle; what’s weird about this? People platonically spoon and talk about their feelings all of the time.

She hears a buzz, and she assumes it’s her phone only to find that she hasn’t received any new messages. The first ping is followed by about eight more, and Solas’ fingernails begin to dig into her sides.

“Who is that?” she asks, resisting the urge to squirm.

“I had been promised to be somewhere this evening, but I decided I would rather not attend.” He breaths.

“I told you not to bring me here if it was going to put you in a bind or anything.” Morinthe huffs, rolling her eyes. “You’re not going to be in trouble, are you?”

“No, it has nothing to do with work. Just a family affair; I was looking for an excuse not to go anyway.” He says. “You have saved me from five hours of tight lipped smiles and wanting to claw my own eyes out.”

“Hm, okay then.” She murmurs, continuing to flip through her contacts. “Is that what has you so worked up tonight?”

“Partially.” He replies. “I thought that I’d grown used to them by now, but they’ve intensified their efforts recently. My cousins are afraid that their father is about to cut them off soon, and now they’re all clambering to suck up to me because I’m the only one out of the lot of them who has anything substantial to stand on. It is just their way, unfortunately.”

“And let me guess,” Morinthe drawls. “Up til’ now, they wouldn’t so much as look at you?”

“I wish,” Solas chuckles. “They’ve always found me rather entertaining. I was too easy to rile up when I was younger. Now that I am less receptive to their shallow attempts to get a reaction out of me, I believe I may have them frightened.”

“Just focus on what you want.” Morinthe agrees. “You don’t owe them anything. Could do them some good to be out on their own for a bit, build some character. I mean, yeah, I’m broke and a little bit miserable, but at least I’m not an asshole. I hope so, anyway.”

“No, not at all…” he murmurs. “They are not entirely terrible, not really. They do have some redeemable qualities underneath it all, even if I may be one of the only people living who realizes it, ironically enough. They deserve a chance to find themselves.”

“Just got to get good and lost first, hmm?” She hums. “They’ll be alright, I’m certain.”

“Always so optimistic when it is about anyone else, aren’t you?” He remarks. Solas nips her ear scoldingly.

“Shut up, damn it.” Morinthe weakly protests, burying her face into her pillow even though he can’t see it. “I stand to revoke hugging rights at any time.”

She’s not upset though, not really, relieved actually. For once, he’s actually let her in. They obviously don’t know each other very well, this being only the second damn time they’ve ever even been around each other, but this isn’t exactly a normal situation. There’s a strange connection here, like the sort of thing you see in a movie. It’s more than a little bit terrifying, but there’s an odd comfort in knowing that he might feel that way too, that she’s not just delusional. Well, any more delusional than usual.

Morinthe begins sifting again, and her breath catches as her thumb hovers over one in particular. Sera. Maybe it’s been her recent ‘reminiscing’, but she suddenly feels an undeniable need to see her again despite it having been two years. Morinthe had been, regrettably, avoiding anyone that remotely even reminding her of those days for some time now in some small effort to get her mind away from the past, but if last night had been anything to go off of, it hasn’t been working.

Why not try to close the door once and for all, let the memories be buried rather than leaving abandoning them out in the sun to rot. She can run as along as she wants, but as long as the door is still open, she’ll never get away, not really.

_ If you really want to change _ , a voice sneers,  _ then why don’t you do something about it? _

Then again, Sera probably won’t want anything to do with her. She’s been pretty shitty to her, after all. Friends don’t ignore each other for two years straight, especially after everything that she’d done for her. Sera had practically saved her life, and how had Morinthe thanked her? Maybe it would be best not to bother her at this point, let her move on with her life.

This line of thought brings back a memory, though, something significantly more more pleasant.

_ “You’re stupid, you know that?” She’d said. “Not like booky stupid, but it’s like you’re thick in the common sensey area, yeah? It’s like you’ve got a right idiot spoutin’ garbage in your head all the damn time. He’s a moron, ya silly, don’t pay him any more mind.” _

You can try, she tells herself. Knowing Sera, she just probably wouldn’t text her back if she didn’t want to talk. Or send her a slew of misspelled cuss words, there’s never any telling with her.

No more thinking; she’ll never do it if she keeps obsessing about what might or might not happen. Morinthe taps the name and hastily texts her a supremely brief ‘hey’, and she sends it before she has a chance to delete it. Once it’s gone, Morinthe notices her heart is hammering in her breast, like she’s just given an order to nuke all of Nevarra. Stupid indeed, making a big deal out of all the tiniest of things.

She finally lets go of the breath she’d been holding, and she sets the phone face down on the sheets. That’s enough for today, Morinthe thinks. She’ll have a stroke or something if she tries anything more. Ridiculous, so ridiculous.

Morinthe squirms, and Solas lets out a confused grunt. When she turns over and hides her face against his throat, he happily settles back around her again.

“People are so difficult. Sometimes I think I’d like to live in a cave somewhere, except the fact that it’d probably be cold and wet and miserable. You know what I mean?” She murmurs.

“Indeed.” he breathes. “Although, while it is significantly more peaceful, being completely alone becomes unbearable after a time.”

“So you’re alone a lot, huh?” She asks. “Well, that’s not fair. You’re really nice.”

He chuckles, but it’s a hollow, bitter thing. The kind of sound a person makes when he’s no tears left, and all he can do is throw up his hands and laugh. “I assure you, any amount of loneliness I’ve had in my life has been well earned.”

He’s got his fingers around the nape of her neck, so she’s not able to look at his face. Solas is holding her just a bit too tightly again.

“Solas,” she quivers. “You scare me a little when you get like this. I just, I don’t get it.”

“No, I suppose you don’t.” he whispers, like there’s a pit in the middle of his chest. It doesn’t sound like an accusation, more like beaten acceptance. The hand that isn’t still clenching at the back of her neck starts up the petting again, up and along her spine beneath her shirt. It’s a little annoying, almost like he’s condescending to her now. “I’m sorry. That is unfair of me.”

“I mean, I don’t get why you’re like this.” Morinthe scoffs. “Is it because you think I’m stupid, or that I won’t care or what? What do think I am, just some air-headed little girl?” She wants to push him away, but can’t quite bring herself to do it.

“No,” he quickly, almost aggressively asserts. “No, you’re not stupid, not even close. But… you promised me time, didn’t you?”

“Yeah…” she relents guiltily. “I did… I’m sorry.” Such a pushover, as always. She did tell him that she’d lay off for a while, though.

He relaxes, slumps actually, resting his chin on top of her hair. “I wish… I do want to tell you Morinthe, truly. It… weighs on me, if you cannot tell.”

“Yeah, I’d have to agree.” She chuckles into his throat. “It’s sort of nice to know, though.”

“How so?” he asks.

“You’re just as flawed and struggling as anybody.” Morinthe hums with a smile. “Thank you for, opening up to me a little, about your family and everything. And, I’m sorry that I yelled at you.”

“You did not yell,” he corrects. “And I must apologise as well. I have been unfair to you.”

She sighs, and suddenly Morinthe’s not so fond of his sweater. Too much of a barrier between her and the skin. Morinthe curls her fingers underneath the hem, but she’s not got enough energy at this point to lift it all the way off. Instead, she dives underneath it and slithers her way between it and his chest. Yes, much better, cozy too.

His chest silently rumbles, and he rests his arms over what must be a rather silly looking lump in his shirt.

“It’s kind of funny to me. You shave your head, but not your chest.” She mumbles. “Not that it bothers me or anything, just kind of a silly observation if you will.”

“Well, my head is considerably smaller and easier to maintain.” he replies. “I find having to deal with hair on my scalp every morning is far more time consuming on the whole.”

“I can believe that.” Morinthe bitterly mutters. “But I have to l manage. Patriarchal beauty standards morphing my self perception and what not.”

“I like your hair.” he offers.

“So you don’t think I have a cute skull?” Morinthe asks, peeking her eyes a little out from his thankfully rather wide collar.

“There’s no right answer to any of this is there?” Solas sighs defeatedly.

Morinthe only lightly nips him in response before burrowing back down.

“You’re precious,” Morinthe laughs. “It’s alright to be wrong, you know. I won’t bite your head off or anything.”

“I know.” Solas says, combing his fingers across the top of her hair. “You are very forgiving.”

“I don’t know.” Morinthe mumbles. “Always seems like I’m the one doing most of the apologizing.”

Morinthe sees a wicked smile in her mind, and the gut wrenching guilt that comes along with it. She’s uncomfortable all of the sudden, itchy. Morinthe thinks at first it’s the sweater, but then she realizes she feels it on her skin, crawling underneath it and spilling out over her nail beds on tiny, creeping legs. 

She scrambles to get free and pushes away the arms that try to grasp at her. Morinthe doesn’t get off the bed altogether, just skitters to the other side.

Solas only stares at her in confusion, arms still stretched out around the fresh emptiness. He’s got the hurt in his eyes again, and this isn’t any good, not at all. It’s got nothing to do with him, not really, just her brain acting up again.

“I don’t want to stay in bed anymore.” Morinthe says, shifting her eyes away. “I’ve just been sleeping for a while, is all.” She quickly slips off the bed and finds her pants.

“...Alright.” he answers softly, and Morinthe makes certain not to look at him as she leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

Morinthe may’ve planned on putting them on at some point, but instead she standing with her leggings bunched up in her clenched hand. The living room, with that damn window and the snow falling outside, is lovingly cool against the itching that still roams beneath her thighs, down her legs, and around her ankles. The desire to scratch, to tear, to give it holes to spring out from is nearly insatiable.

Where’s the bathroom? Maybe she can take a shower. A cold one, icy enough that she might freeze over, but she hadn’t found it before. It had to be through the bedroom again. That would just be too much of a confrontation, or at least it she imagines it would be. Maybe if she went out into the snow…

Perhaps not. That might be hard to explain if she ran into anyone on the street, wouldn’t it?

She goes for the window instead, and she presses her back to it. Morinthe slides down to the floor, probably leaving some hideous skid marks in her wake, but who cares? It’s a little bit better, at least.

Morinthe closes her eyes and lets her forehead fall against her drawn up knees. The darkness helps a bit to calm the jitters.

The subtle creak of the door heralds his entry, though nothing else does. He’s so silent she thinks that he’s just standing there in the doorway, and when he does speak, his voice is so close that she nearly jumps out of her own skin. “Morinthe?”

Morinthe blinks owlishly at him. Solas really isn’t disturbingly proximate, standing a perfectly appropriate distance away, but far closer than she’d expected. Must be the carpet, she rationalizes.

He still looks a bit off kilter, like he’s got vertigo. Morinthe can’t blame him, really. It isn’t exactly normal to go from being (though she trembles at the thought) openly affectionate to cold bitch the next instant.

“Your phone,” Solas finally says, holding it out to her. “Someone has messaged you.”

“Thank you,” Morinthe mumbles, even though her chest is clenching so much it feels like she’s liable to turn inside out. She does her best not to let her hand shake too much as she takes it from him.

Solas shuffles off to the kitchen, looking surprisingly awkward, for himself anyway. He’s like a cat who’s been tossed out of the bed right as he’s gotten comfortable, she thinks. Morinthe feels about as bad as though she’s thrown a cat. The fridge opens, but she can’t imagine what he could be getting out of that empty thing, if it’s not the wine.

There is indeed a message, and it’s from Sera. Morinthe might not have ever looked at it, if it wasn’t short enough for her to see the entire thing without unlocking her phone.

_ Hey yourself. What took you so long, arse biscuit? _

If it weren’t for the little face sticking its tongue out at her, Morinthe might’ve thought this was angry Sera. Well, she was probably angry, but she was showing some remarkable amount of restraint.

The surge of relief is utterly overwhelming, but it still takes her a few minutes to compose her incredibly complex reply.

_ Nothing. Just being stupid again. _

The phone seems to buzz almost the instant she’s sent it, though it’s probably just her old granny mind playing tricks on her.

_ Figured. When you gonna come see me bug? _

It would probably seem sort of sudden to anyone who didn’t know Sera, but that’s just how she is, how she’s always been. Not crazy, but not quite normal either. So, just right, as far as Morinthe is concerned.

_ Whenever,  _ she sends back. Morinthe bites into her thumbnail and quickly adds,  _ Sorry. _

_ No sorries now, you hear? Once you get started with that nonsense you’ll never stop. _ Morinthe can almost hear Sera’s irritated chiding in her head.  _ Where are you? _

_ Haven _ , Morinthe replies.

_ What you doin’ in Haven for? Got a new ‘friend’ you? _

_ Yeah,  _ Morinthe taps away with a small smile.  _ I do, he’s nice. _

_ You willin’ to dump him for me, though, right? I got senuourity or whatever on this guy, don’t I? _

_ Sure you do, _ Morinthe sends with a smirk.  _ What’s the female equivalent of bros before hoes? He’s not really my whore though, so I don’t think it fits. He just offered to let me stay over for the weekend while I figured things out. _

_ Hah. That’d take years mate.  _ Sera sends a little demon face with that quip, and Morinthe isn’t sure whether or not she should be insulted. It’s true, after all.  _ Better get out before he turns asshole on you. Ain’t no man out there without ulteryer motives these days. And he’s an elf too ain’t he? _

_ I never said anything about him being an elf. What if he’s a Qunari?  _ Morinthe retorts.

_ So he is an elf? Yeah, I know your type bug. Probably all hoity toity. You’ve never caught on, smarter means craftier, I should know.  _ Again, she can practically see Sera’s nose all scrunched up with disapproval.

_ You know I’m don’t let myself get tangled up in all that.  _ Or at least she did, though. Morinthe isn’t too certain now. Damn confusing sweater-y jerkface.  _ I never planned on sticking around. _

_ Good show. Keep em’ at a length so he can’t get no grip on nothin’. Denerim then. Monday? _

_ How about Tuesday? I’ll probably have to take the bus again. Flying’s ridiculous.  _ Morinthe offers.

_ Take the train. Faster and cheaper, saves gas, though that probably isn’t a problem for you or nothin’. _

_ I’ll look into it _ , she decides.  _ Tuesday it is then. Text me your address? _

_ Sure thing bug. Be ready to get smashed and spit loogies over the balcony. Lenny has it comin’ to him, the right bastard. Talk to you later, cat’s having a panic attack over shoes again. Prolly needs a minute in the closet or two. _

_ Okay then, can’t wait.   _ Morinthe replies with a chuckle, adding a winking face to set the mood. You can never really get the right message with words alone, always seems so much bitchier that way.

She’s pulled back into the real world again, and she notices that Solas still hasn’t come out of the kitchen. He’s rather unnaturally quiet in his strange way. Morinthe realizes she really out to apologize, or at least explain herself. It hadn’t been his fault; he doesn’t deserve to sit in there and torment himself over whatever it had been that he’d done.

Morinthe stands up, and she figures she ought to put on her pants if they’re going to have any kind of serious conversation, or conversation period. Don’t want him getting ass happy.

Solass, Morinthe thinks with a cheap chuckle. She’s an adult, totally.

Morinthe peeks her head around the corner of the archway. He’s leaning against the counter, not slumping thankfully, and he’s drinking out of a glass rather than the bottle. Not too upset then, good.

“Hi.” she awkwardly manages.

“Hello.” he replies. He gestures to an already filled glass standing next to his elbow. Morinthe is still a bit apprehensive, though. She may or may not have been roofied at one point in her life, though she thankfully had a pretty damn awesome friends to help her out of that one. Morinthe realizes she’s just being paranoid at this point, but it never hurts to be careful, right?

_ Just wait,  _ Morinthe thinks,  _ You’ll be hanging up in his closet of woman suits in no time.  _

She decides she’s stupid enough to take that chance, so she crosses the room and picks up the glass.

“Sorry about that.” Morinthe awkwardly says, leaning against the counter beside him. “It wasn’t anything you did. I’m just… encountering some ghosts today.”

“Understandable.” he replies. Solas holds the glass on eye level, staring through the golden fluid.

“Whatever. It’s fine now, really.” Morinthe assures him with a smile. He’s still quiet, so she furtively pokes him in the side. Solas glances at her in the corner of his eye. “We’re still doing what you want to do tonight, remember?”

“Are we indeed?” he asks, swirling the glass around in between his thumb and forefinger. His lips are taught, and there’s a line between his brows.

Morinthe frowns, looking to the floor. “Oh, okay then… I can go, if you’d like me to. I don’t mind, really.” This is a lie, of course. Even saying so makes her want to cry a little, for some reason, but she won’t. That wouldn’t be fair.

“No.” He sighs. Solas closes his eyes, and his head tips  backward, face toward the ceiling. “I do not want you to go Morinthe.”

“What do you want then?” Morinthe asks. The corner of her bottom lip is tugged in between her teeth. She’s not even sure what to do at this point, socially inept as she is, so she just sort of stands there silently, which apparently suits him fine.

Solas turns to her, placing the glass on the counter. He reaches out and gently grasps her chin, and he slowly turns her face from side to side.

“May I paint you?” he finally requests.

“Should I be naked?” She asks, mouth breaking into a hesitantly playful smile.

“Would you like to be?” He counters, tilting his head as he runs the end of a lock of her long hair between his fingers.

“You’re the artist aren’t you?” Morinthe replies.

“So that’s a yes, then.” He chuckles. Giggling like an idiot, Morinthe lets herself be tugged out of the room.

“Now Solas, have a little bit of shame will you?” Morinthe quips.

“The joys in life are much too few and far between for such a useless thing.” He remarks with a smirk.

Solas has her sit on the couch, in the corner right next to the lamp. Good for the lighting, she supposes. Morinthe leans back against the armrest, folding her arms over her stomach. Solas pulls her ankles out from where she’d tucked them underneath herself and brings them to be stretched out in front of her. Sitting up on his knees, he nudges his way in between her legs, a hand resting on each of her knees.

“Morinthe.” He wonders aloud, smoothing his hands over her thighs. She can’t blame him; these leggings are pretty soft. “Am I allowed ask you something that may make you uncomfortable?”

“Hmm,” she muses to herself. “I bolster my frail endurance in preparation.”

“Have you ever been in love before?” he murmurs. Solas isn’t looking at her, thankfully, instead focusing on the patterns he’s tracing over her legs.

“I, um,” she stutters, glancing up to the ceiling. “I’ve got so many friends who’ve held me up over the years, you know. I love them, even though I don’t always act like it.”

“That isn’t quite the same, though I am not suggesting that the love between friends is meaningless.” He sighs, tucking his thumb into the waistband. “It is a rather helpless thing, caring about someone that much. I would not necessarily recommend it, not for everyone.”

Yep, she’s uncomfortable, mostly because of the unspoken implications of that.

_ It’s okay, _ she tells herself to stop the urge to panic.  _ He’s just being all philosophical again. He’s not necessarily talking about...  _

He tugs the elastic down on one side, and Morinthe suddenly stops him with her hand.

“I haven’t shaved in a day or two.” She realizes sheepishly.

Solas gives her a look, like she’s just turned down a perfectly good banana because she’s found a brown spot on it.

“They’re still legs, aren’t they?” he asks, tugging the other side down as well. Solas takes his time, hands curling under her calves and pulling them up to rest on his shoulders as he tugs the stretchy cloth off from around her ankles and tosses it across the room.

“Well, would you look at that?” Solas remarks. He curls his arms around each of her shins, and he presses a kiss to the inside of her ankle. “They are legs after all, even without the benefit of a razor.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I thought I’d been stumbling around on noodles all this time.” Morinthe snorts. “You’d think so, the way I go on sometimes. They’re not even long noodles.”

“If you do not want them, I’ll happily have them then.” He remarks, unhooking her ankles from around his neck.

“Why do all of the nice ones have to turn out to be axe murderers?” Morinthe murmurs.

“For the same reason that good men go to the gallows and all children are eventually subject to the crushing weight of sins they did not commit.” Solas exposes. “The god or gods of this world, if there truly are any, have a rather sadistic sense of humor.”

He lifts her shirt up and over her head next, and it joins the leggings on the floor. Solas leans forward so that he can slip his arms around to unhook her bra. While he’s in that area, he leaves a kiss on her collarbone, and then another paired with a brief nuzzle.

“Hey now,” she reminds him. “We’ll never get to this painting business if you keep that up.”

Solas hums, and he snatches her bra away, and then the panties are gone as well. He doesn’t stand up right away, instead choosing to lie down, blanketing over her and resting his head on her shoulder. It’s nice, considering the chill that’s still in the air.

“Solas,” she whispers. “When have you been in love, then?”

“Many years ago.” he sighs, tickling her skin with his breath.

“What happened, then, if I may ask?” She continues.

“She died.” he replies.

Morinthe stares at the ceiling, mouth dry. “I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine…”

“Don’t.” he says. “It’s fine now. Just another old wound.”

Solas slowly stands up from the cough, and that’s when the cold attacks her. Morinthe crosses her arms over her chest with a scowl.

“I’ll turn the heat up.” He offers. “I’d like to avoid having to incorporate a blanket.”

“You pervert.” She laughs, curling into a small ball. Why does the material have to be leather on this damn thing?

“Far from it. The perverse thing would be to obscure such true beauty.” He carefully adjusts the thermostat, in the way that men will.

Solas disappears into the kitchen and, presumably, to the back hallway from there. The room does become progressively warmer, and Morinthe begins to feel comfortable enough to unknot herself again.

Morinthe hears what she realizes is the sound of a lock clicking. Is that what he has back there, painting supplies?

“Must be expensive stuff.” She figures, closing her eyes. “Or he’s off to get the lotion and scissors.”

He returns with, rather than the stereotypical easel, a sketch book.

“Are we just doing a drawing now?” she asks him.

“No,” he replies, sitting on the far end of the couch. “I have to build my canvases myself, so I always want to be certain to have everything I put on it plotted out before I even touch it. I thankfully have an extra on hand at the moment, but only the one.”

“Alright.” She replies. “Do you want me to do anything in particular?”

“Just relax.” He says, flipping open the black bound book.

Morinthe settles back against the armrest again, and she lets her eyes slide shut.

“Eyes open, please.” He remarks, scratching away. “And that’s not relaxing. Do you need help perhaps?”

“Is this just an excuse to have sex?” Morinthe asks, peeking one of her eyes open.

“Possibly, yes.” He replies, gaze still trained on the page in front of him. 

“Here, now.” She quips, beckoning with her hand.

With his signature restrained smile, Solas closes the book before setting it aside. As he comes forward, she wraps her legs around his waist and tugs him downward, letting him flop onto her chest again. He laughs, not a quiet chuckle or a snicker, a real almost bubbly laugh. It’s rather infectious.

“Wait,” Solas says as she begins to pluck at the top buttons of his shirt. “We’ve left the wine in the kitchen.”

“Chop chop then,” She says, smacking him on the butt. “We haven’t got all night, do we?”

“No, just tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day.” He murmurs, dragging his thumb across her bottom lip. He smiles. “I will do my best to be swift,  _ ma asha _ . There is no time to waste.”

Soon enough she’s lying in between his legs, head on his chest, with a glass cupped in her hands. He’s still unfairly dressed, but it’s alright. She understands a bit more now; he prefers to be the one doing the pleasing. She’s much the same in a lot of ways, but she’ll let it go tonight. She’s letting him have it his way, as much as she feels compelled to take the reins herself.

His glass has found its way onto the coffee table, and now his hands are on her shoulders. Morinthe softly gasps as they begin to heat up and knead gently into the flesh.

“Mrmph,” She grunts, toes curling inward. “Why aren’t mage masseuses a thing?”

“They are, but they’re rather pricey.” He comments. He’s doing the petting thing again, along her neck, over her arms, and down her sides to her hips. Morinthe’s starting to feel numb, closer to just falling asleep than actually getting to the sex business. He chuckles as her eyes begin to slide shut. “Try not to drop your glass, Morinthe.”

“Smug jerk.” Morinthe sighs, melting into the flannel behind her. She takes a sip of the wine, smiling at the tipsy tingling on the very end of her nose. “Don’t think just because I’m playing nice right now that I’m above turning the tables on you.”

“Perhaps later.” He says, nipping the tip of her ear. “Morinthe, would you mind turning around for me?”

“Okay,” she says, and she sets the glass down next to his on the table before shifting around to where she’s straddling him.

Solas rests his hands on her hips, and he’s looking at her intensely again. Morinthe looks down to her hands as she wrings them together just to alleviate the tension a bit.

“Why won’t you look at me?” he whispers. Oh great, she’s gone and hurt his feelings again. She’d say he’s too sensitive if she it didn’t make her feel like such an asshole.

“I don’t know.” Morinthe admits with a shrug. “It’s just a lot of pressure, I guess.”

Solas cups her face in his hands, lifting her face upward. Morinthe swallows, like a damn cartoon, and she finds herself staring back into those lavender blues. He drags his thumb slowly over her cheek bone, and he smiles. He doesn’t look scary or anything, though, never has. He’s soft, that’s the word. His thumb slides into her mouth next, and she gives it a gentle suck.

Solas catches a groan in his throat, and he shuts his eyes in a familiar amount of frustration. It’s the fun kind, though, she realizes with a smirk.

Morinthe extricates his thumb and hand, only to press a kiss into his palm. She follows this one up with trailing pecks up and along each of his long fingers. She focuses in particular on his ring finger, the one with the most freckles on it. She takes it into her mouth and lathes her tongue over it, and she grins around it at the way he scowls in response.

“I thought you were going to play nice…” he grunts, followed by a shuddering sigh.

“But you just have such pretty hands.” Morinthe murmurs, placing it back against her cheek so that she can caress it with her own. “You were asking for it.” She turns her face fully into his palm with a  moan. Apparently that does it.

The pants come off, and once she’s manages to toss them and his underwear out of the way and slide the condom he’d had in his pocket on, he wastes no time pulling her back into his lap. She doesn’t even get a chance to unbutton his shirt all of the way before she gets a bit… distracted.

She wraps her arms around his neck and lets her head hang forward, unable to even bring herself to lift it up. Morinthe yelps as he buries his teeth briefly in the junction of her shoulder, replaces the sharpness with a smooth swipe of tongue. He crushes her against his chest, and the feel of the flannel brushing up against her breast is a little irritating, not going to lie. She’s willing to let it pass, though.

They’re finished at about the same time, and Morinthe limply sags against him. Solas drags his fingers up and down her spine, and it’s soft enough at first that she doesn’t realize that he’s humming to himself. She recognizes the tune as well.

“Is that an old elvhen lullaby?” she asks, as quickly as her brain is able to process thoughts at this point.

“It is to the Dalish, yes, but it is actually only an excerpt from an epic poem, which would have been traditionally performed to music in Elvhenan. It was a rather silly tale, but remarkably popular at the time. The modern version’s lyrics are completely different, but the tune is the same.” He explains.

“What was the original version about, then?” Morinthe begins to trace constellations across his shoulders with her finger.

“One of the side characters, a prince of a nation in which the traveling hero spends some amount of time before eventually carrying on, sings a ballad to a woman listening on from a balcony above him. Both the prince and his soon to be fiance have always annoyed me as characters, if I’m to be honest. Aside from being in love, they do not have any other interesting traits. It spoke to people, nevertheless, and the tune is catchy.” he murmurs.

“I think I like the Dalish version better, if you don’t mind my saying. You can’t really go wrong with love for a baby, can you?” She says.

“I agree.” He remarks. “And the sentiment is far less fleeting. I mean no offense by this, but love between young people often seems more meaningful that it actually is.”

“Good thing we’re both jaded and miserable then.” Morinthe snorts, letting her eyes drift shut.

Solas is stiff all of the sudden, and Morinthe sits up a little to look him in the face. He’s staring at her with his mouth open, ever so slightly, but just enough.

“What?”

“So you…” He trails off, looking down at his hands. “I thought you only wanted…”

Oh. That had had some serious implications in it, hadn’t it?

“Well, uh,” She’s blushing again, shit. Morinthe sighs in defeat. “Okay, you know what? How about we just go with what feels natural, and not worry about anything else, alright?”

“Natural, hmm?” he muses, playing with her hair again. He seems rather fascinated by it today. Solas closes his eyes, shakes his head, and begins laughing. It’s quiet at first, but it gets louder, louder than she’s ever heard him. It’s not creepy, though, just happy. Overjoyed in fact.

Suddenly enough to make her yelp in surprise, he circles his arms around her and kisses her, like he’s been told it’s the last one he’ll ever get. Stars and flashing lights, she’s been thrown into the vacuum of space and doesn’t care at all. Solas stops eventually, breathing heavily through his nose, and he rests his forehead against hers. His pupils are dilated, and there’s something strikingly alive about his expression.

_ He looks ten years younger _ , she thinks.  _ I really don’t need to stay here too long. I could do something really stupid, if he keeps looking at me like that. _

“We ought to get back to painting.” He murmurs. “I think I have an idea of how I want to pose you.”

He cleans her up with a towel first, and, regretably, puts his pants back on.

Solas stands there, a hand on his chin, looking thoughtfully at her until she feels like crawling out of her skin. He seems to make up his mind, finally, and sets about gently setting her to place.

He has he lying down on her side instead of sitting up, one arm across her stomach and the other hanging off of the side of the couch.

“Look straight forward.” he instructs softly. “Feel free to blink if you need to, but try not to glance about too much.”

“Solas,” she says. “I feel like this is going to be really boring after a while. Do you have a T.V. or a laptop or something?”

“Certainly.” he replies. He disappears into his bedroom and returns with a laptop tucked under his arm, which he sets up on the coffee table in front of her. “What would you like to see? I have Netflix.”

“Really? I didn’t imagine you watched any shows at all.” Morinthe says.

“I used to have a television, but I became so fed up with my cable company I decided it wasn’t worth the effort.” he explains. “I mostly watch documentaries, sometimes out of genuine interest, often for the comedy.”

“Any kind in particular?” She drawls.

“The funniest ones are made by the Animal Planet.” He says. “I always find it entertaining when the narrator tries to explain the thoughts of some prowling creature. Do you truly know that the nug is searching for water? Maybe she’s just chasing a grasshopper, for all you’re able to tell. You aren’t in the damn thing’s head.”

Morinthe giggles, and Solas frowns. He grasps her chin and adjusts the position of her head again before turning back to the computer screen. ‘Excuse me,’ she mouths to his back, punctuating it by sticking out her tongue.

“What do you watch?” he asks.

“I have a guilty pleasure for horrible reality T.V., in the same way that people like to watch car accidents on the side of the road. I’m pretty sure your ears would start bleeding from that after a while.” She thinks aloud.

“Quite possibly, yes.” he agrees.

“How about a documentary, then? Not a sad one, though, I’m a complete baby when it comes to that stuff.” she says, shutting her eyes. Fabulous, she’s already feeling stiff. This whole thing is significantly less fun than she’d imagined in practice. “Plus if baby animals are involved.”

“This one is about mabari puppies.” He remarks. There’s something about hearing him say ‘puppies’ is funny.

“Perfect. Do you mind if I start smiling uncontrollably?” she asks as the video starts.

“No, not at all.” Solas replies.

It’s absolutely adorable, as promised, and it’s a little hard not to move while she’s laughing this hard. Solas doesn’t seem to mind, however, scratching away in his little book without a care.

“You’ve never really talked much about your artwork before. What style do you paint in, anyway?” She asks, eye drifting shut.

“It varies, depending on my mood. I often find myself mimicking elvhen murals and frescoes, however.” he says. “I find myself drawn to the saturated colors.”

“You’re beautiful.” she comments, but she’s not looking at his face. It’s his hands that she’s focused on, long fingers and neatly trimmed nails. “How come I’m the only one who has to be naked?”

“You were the one who wanted to be naked.” He reminds her. “And I feel like, given our track record, that would serve as far too much of a temptation on both our parts.”

“Probably.” she replies. Morinthe laughs again as the little gray puppy slumps forward on his face as he passes out in the middle of the floor. “I can’t help myself, though. You’re too damn pretty.”

“That is a rather unusual opinion, considering how most see me.” he notes. “This should not come as any surprise to you, but I have many students that are around the same age as you are. Most just think of me as a boring old man.”

“Pfft, as if.” she snorts. “You are kind of an acquired taste. I can see how they might not notice it if they weren’t paying attention, but the longer I look at you the more I find, if that makes any sense.”

“I am not exactly concerned about whether or not anyone else finds me attractive.” he says.

She invisibly blushes again, and decides it might be best to redirect this conversation. “So do you always go around bagging people almost ten years younger than you are? I feel like that might be awkward since you’re a teacher and all.”

“No, I don’t.” he stiffly replies. “Never. I do not see them that way. They’re children, even if they think they have their lives completely figured out already.”

“I’m the exception, then. I have no idea what the heck I’m doing.” she whispers. She’s feeling rather drowsy again.

“You will find your path eventually. You have time.” he says, and then he adds, “And you have me.”

“Hmm…” she hums. She’s going to fall asleep again, she knows it. Morinthe’s certain that he’s not going to turn her into a woman suit, though. Morinthe lets herself drift off, and a while later, she registers arms slipping under her and the fact that she is sans a couch beneath her.

Morinthe sighs as she’s placed in a pocket of blankets, and she tucks her face into his now bare chest.

“I love you.” he whispers, a tiny sound just barely loud enough to overcome the sirens and buzz of the city outside, but she hears it. She may have expected herself to be more shocked, maybe to run away screaming. She’s so tired, though, and he’s so warm, and this isn’t exactly surprising at all.

“I know.” she mumbles. This earns her a tight squeeze and a shudder, and she rubs his arm soothingly. “I know.” 


	5. Chapter 5

Solas is pleased enough to find that he isn’t, unusually enough, plagued by nightmares that evening, far from it.

  
Morinthe has wandered into his dream, though she doesn’t realize it. It’s a tempting situation, truly. He wonders what sort of confessions he could coax from her, words she would never utter in waking, but he decides against it. That would not be fair.

  
He’s still on a bit of a euphoric high as well, which reflects in the dreamscape around them. They’re wandering through the garden on his old estate in the countryside in Elvhenan. It had been a gift from Mythal, once filled with purely decorative flora, but while many of those flowers and hedges remained there, he had eventually replaced much of the place with medicinal herbs, fruits, vegetables, and other more practical plants. Eccentric had been the word the nobles had used for him, but Solas had simply never outgrown his humble origins.

  
It is probably all brambles and weeds now, he muses, if there is anything left growing here at all.

  
Morinthe, dressed in a gilded green gown of silk, shoulders and long neck glowing bronze in the sunlight, kneels down to pluck a fruit from a bush. They’re long since extinct in this age, but the closest comparison he can draw is somewhere between a strawberry and a plum.

  
She bites into it, smiling at first at the taste, which is only at best a wispy shadow of the real thing his memory can provide. She scoffs in surprise as a burst of juice comes dripping down her chin.

  
Solas, who has been thus far content to stroll after her with his arms tucked behind him, reaches out and pulls her to him so that he can draw his tongue up the line of purple fluid on her neck, over her chin, and into her mouth.

  
When he lets her go again, she looks a bit dazed, but not for long. She smirks, grasps the front of his black, gold trimmed robes, and brings him in for another hungry kiss. Always so competitive, his heart.

  
She turns away and proceeds on her toes to hop across the trail of rocks in the small stream, and with a fond smile Solas walks along the perfectly functioning bridge beside her.

  
“Will you say it again?” She asks, taking his offered hand and twirling herself around it.

  
“Say what again?” He asks with a smirk.

  
“You know what.” She accuses, prodding him in the side.

  
“I am afraid you will have to be more specific.” He chuckles.

  
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” she quips.

  
“So I have been told.” Solas replies.

  
She huffs and rolls her eyes before stomping ahead. Morinthe glances suspiciously back at him over her shoulder. “Why do you have hair all the sudden?”

  
“Do you assume I have always looked as I do now?” He asks, brow raised. “I once had long hair, yes, but I have found that I prefer a more manageable style as of late.” He tilts his head in consideration. “Do you like it?”

  
She shrugs. “I’m fine either way. Whichever makes you happiest.”

  
He sighs, and he can only shake his head. “I cannot understand how you do not see how wonderful you are.”

  
“Few people do.” She says with a shrug, twirling a small white flower in her fingers. “Are you sure you love me?”

  
“Yes Morinthe, I love you.” He replies in affectionate exasperation.

  
“Okay…” She murmurs, plucking off the petals and letting them fall to the ground one by one.

  
She drops the stem last, then she turns away and starts walking again. His eyes can’t help trailing down the curve of her spine through the v-neck back of that dress. They need to find something similar in the waking world. She used to like to dress for him, back then, with only the mountains all around as an audience. The mountains are the same; he wonders if she’d enjoy it still.

  
It had started as mostly a joke. The nobles looking to gain approval in the eyes of the illustrious Inquisitor, particularly the Orlesians, often gave her ridiculously large and emblazoned gowns among other extravagant gifts. Hoping to share a bit of her exasperation with another, she’d shown him how stuffed her closet had become with the things. She’d eventually started going through the pile, tossing several of them carelessly on the floor. They’d found, however, a few among them that were actually reasonably appealing. With some time to waste on their hands, she’d tried a few on. It ended up being a bit of a tradition, a way to put their minds off of things for a while every now and again, though she never did end up wearing any of them outside of her quarters.

  
She’d probably gripe about how expensive everything is now, he bitterly thinks. When is her birthday? Perhaps it’s the same, or maybe not. It could be a decent enough excuse to spoil her.

  
They come to the edge of the garden, where it gives way to a large field. A gust of wind sweeps over the hills, picking up her skirt and hair. Morinthe turns her gaze upward, and she cups her hands together, open palms wanting for something. Does even she know what it is?

  
“Would you wait for me?” she asks.

  
“Of course.” He breathes.

  
It’s been three hundred years, after all, what’s a few more?

  
She pulls her hands back, curling them inward at her breast.

  
“Maybe I could say it too. One day.” she whispers. The wind blows again, in a raucous roar, and it starts to tear the garden apart. Solas’ ears begin to ring with a familiar tune, and the Fade is pulled away.

* * *

  
Solas blinks awake, turns over, and irritably checks his phone. Yes, that’s right. He has lunch with Tethras. Good thing he’d set an alarm; it’s noon now.

  
He feels the sheets begin to shift beside him, and he looks down to see her, his heart, blinking groggily up at him. Solas leans down and gives her a swift peck on the end of her nose. It wrinkles in response, and this earns her another kiss.

  
“Go back to sleep, ma ean.” he says. Maybe he could cancel. No, he did that last time. Varric is one of the few people he wants to stay in contact with. “I have an appointment with a friend. I’ll be back soon.”

  
“Mm’kay,” she mumbles. He pulls the covers back up over her shoulders and slips out of bed.

  
He and Varric have tried to meet at least once a month at this outdoor cafe for the last few years, with some gaps here and there. They’ve kept true to this for the most part, however.

  
Varric is already sitting at their table, and his usual order is waiting for him.

  
“Thought you wouldn’t show there for a second, Chuckles.” he remarks, idly scratching his stubble.

  
“I overslept.” he explains, pulling out his chair.

  
Varric raises an eyebrow. “You, oversleep? All those papers starting to wear on you?”

  
“No,” he says, smiling to himself. “That isn’t it.”

  
“Something else keeping you up, then?” Varric asks, eyes probing.

  
“I’d rather not discuss it.” He says stiffly,bringing himself back into the present.

  
“Alright, suit yourself.” Varric says, holding up his hands. “Anything else of note going on, then?”

  
“Not in particular, no. More of the same mostly. Office drama never changes, particularly in the ivory tower.” Solas drawls, eyes trailing after a droplet of condensation on the outside of his glass. It makes his mind go back to a similar image from last night. Solas blinks out of the daydream, lest he become too… enthused.

  
“Solas?” he says, drawing back his attention. “What is it with you today? I’ve never seen you like this before.”

  
“I have ah, a guest.” Solas admits, turning his head to look at the melting snow in the street.

  
“‘A guest’?” he echoes. “What kind of guest? Not family, I hope.”

  
“No, not family.” he affirms, turning his fork over in his fingers. “A friend.”

  
“A lady friend, or man if you prefer? I’ve never seen you with either.” Varric muses.

  
“Yes, if you really must know.” He admits, teeth gritting together.

  
“Well, Chuckles, I hardly believe it.” Varric scoffs. “Once in Halamshiral, and now you’re at it again. Did you wake up one morning and decide you were going to have a life outside of work all of the sudden? I’ve gotta be honest with you, you don’t seem the type to start bringing home party girls all the time.”

  
“She is the same one as last time.” he corrects.

  
“From Halamshiral?” he gapes at Solas.

  
“Yes,” he says. His phone suddenly buzzes in his pocket, and while it’s tempting to check it, he doesn’t want to be rude. “She was in the area, so she called me. She needed a place to stay for the weekend.”

  
“You gave her your phone number?” Varric says, a thumb to his chin. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

  
“What gives you that idea?” Solas deflects. The phone buzzes again.Maybe something’s wrong back at home. Should he go to the bathroom to answer, perhaps?

  
“You’re one of the most obsessive people I know.” Varric flatly replies. “All in or all out. You wouldn’t just hand out your number to anyone, much less let them stay over.”

  
“Thank you for the psycho-analysis.” Solas dryly remarks. A third ring.

  
“It is none of my business, at the end of the day.” Varric relents. “Do you need to get that, by the way?”

  
“I think so, yes. Excuse me.” he says.

  
While it’s warmer today, there’s not many people on the street. He rounds the corner of the restaurant and leans against the wall.

  
There’s three messages, each with a picture attachment, all from Morinthe.

  
He begins to blush before he’s even opened any of them. Solas hesitantly looks around, but there’s no one paying any attention to him at all.

  
Holding his breath, he opens the first one.

  
_Do you need food, or do you live off the energy of the universe?_ This is paired with a shot of his open fridge. He chuckles, rolling his eyes.

  
He taps the next one.

  
_You have some cute neighbours._ It’s of a pair of plump, brown-speckled birds sitting on his window sill.

  
He’s grinning now, and he quickly taps on the final message. This is when he flushes.

  
_And what you were probably expecting. I aim to please._ She’s sitting on the counter in bathroom taking a picture of her reflection in the mirror, naked backside center frame. She’s smiling wickedly, lower lip caught in her teeth.

  
He perhaps looks at that final photograph longer than he’d like to admit, and he shakes his head. He quickly taps out his reply.

  
_I have been eating out a lot recently. I do need to go shopping. Perhaps some seeds for the neighbours as well? And please, Morinthe, I am in public._

  
Almost as quickly as he’s sent it, he receives a reply.

  
_You actually haven’t eaten out, not in the past couple of days. Sorry, you left yourself open to that one. Wanna go grocery shopping later, then?_

  
What is he going to do with this woman? As soon as the thought enters his head, he can think of several things he’d like to do, marry her first and foremost, but that may be going a bit too fast for her.

  
_Sounds perfect. I’ll be back soon._

  
He returns the phone to his pocket, and he comes back around to the table again.

  
“And you’re practically grinning ear to ear.” Varrics revels. “That was her, I take it?”

  
“Perhaps.” Solas replies, pushing the vegetables around on his plate idly. It’s a wonder he’s able to function, eating as little as he does. He’s a selective man.

  
“I have to meet this girl.” he chuckles.

  
“She would probably like you, but I imagine that it might be dangerous for my own sanity to have you two in the same room together.” he drawls.

  
“Sounds like we’d really get along then.” he snorts. “I’ve got some people over in Antiva, by the way, who are looking into possibly hiring you to work on a recently discovered dig site. Say they’ve found something elfy, and that it’s beyond their area of expertise. They’re willing to pay for your flight and hotel. They must really want you.”

  
“I’m not going to have one less kidney after this trip am I?” Solas asks.

  
“Nah, why go through the trouble? Any old bloke has a kidney to spare. And I know these people. I wouldn’t send you into anything sketchy, you know that.” He says, waving him off.

  
“I only jest.” He replies. The phone buzzes again, but he’s able to stave off the urge to find out why. “Sounds interesting. When is this? My students will have off for their spring break in a month or so.”

  
“That will probably work out. I’ll have to talk with them about it.” Varric concedes. “That’s not going to interfere with current arrangements, is it?”

  
“She isn’t moving in, Varric.” Solas corrects. _Not yet, anyway_ , wishful thinking pipes up.

  
“I’m just saying,” Varric rumbles. “What is this, the second time you’ve met? A month’s a long time at the pace you’re going.”

  
“Our encounters seem to happen in two month intervals, so no, probably not.” Solas says.

  
“Whatever happens, be sure to tell me about it later. This kind of story sells.” Varric replies.

  
“I would rather not star in one of your romance serials. A side character in an adventure I can tolerate, but your sex scenes? That is cruel and unusual punishment.” Solas scoffs.

  
“Ah, but there’s an audience for it.” He says as the waitress hands him the check. “It’s my turn to get the check. See you again soon Chuckles, and bring your lady around next time.”

  
“I’ll see what I can do,” Solas promises, while only half meaning it.

  
The restaurant is only a couple blocks away from the apartment, so he walks back just as he’d come. As he does, Solas slips his phone back out again.

  
_Hey, I was looking up some recipes. I have compiled a list of nefarious ingredients……………_

  
He tilts his head and replies.

  
_Must we have so many ellipses? Sounds most nefarious indeed. Should I intervene before the templars drag you away for your heathenistic Dalish blood magic?_

  
Solas quickly receives her response.

  
_They won’t take me alive!!! Would you go with me???_

  
That doesn’t take much consideration.

  
_We will take down the chantry together, or die trying. There will never be chains on us again._

  
He gets back to the building, and despite being only an elevator’s ride away, he anxiously awaits her reply.

  
_Better watch what you say, harellan. Never know who might be listening in…………………………………………………………………………………_ …

  
He’s already at the door, so he puts the phone away and walks on through.

  
She’s sitting cross legged in the middle of the floor, her back to the door. She’s wearing one of his few t-shirts with the leggings from the night before. Morinthe has a cookbook in her lap, a gift he’d received years ago and has never used, and a pen and paper beside her.

  
“Ah, tomatoes and basil. Malicious indeed,” he comments, leaning over her to peer at the list.

  
Morinthe looks up and smiles. “That’s just code you silly. Wouldn’t want anyone to know what I’m actually shopping for.”

  
He pecks her on the lips, and given how awkward the angle is, it’s a good thing it’s brief.

  
“Human sacrifice is a tough business these days.” Solas agrees. “We do as we must.”

  
“Mmm…” She shuts her eyes and smiles. “What can I say? Nothing quite like bathing in the blood of unwitting shemlen after I’m done dancing naked in the moonlight.”

  
“I hear warm water can have a similar effect.” he says. Solas takes his coat off and throws it over the back of the couch. He sits down beside her then, and, testing his luck a little, he leans his head on her shoulder.

  
She flips through a few more pages, and it all seems more or less decent. It’s a very general book, not focusing on any one nationality.

  
“I did not know you cooked.” Solas notes.

  
“I don’t,” she replies with a shrug, which displaces him momentarily. She apologetically kisses his forehead. “But I saw the book and was curious.”

  
“I have never used it before. I do not often cook for myself.” he says.

  
“Me neither. My diet consists mostly of granola bars and protein shakes.” She flips the book closed and maneuvers out from underneath him. “Why don’t we go, while we still have day light?”

  
He tugs her back and nips her on the lip. “I haven’t forgotten that picture, by the way.”

  
“Well, that was sort of the point.” She laughs, poking him in the nose. “I try to make an impression on people.”

  
“And you have succeeded. It has been two months since I’ve gone down on you, hasn’t it?” he wonders aloud. “A horrendous error on my part, and one which must quickly be corrected.”

  
“Later.” She says, pulling him to his feet. “I need to make sure you have something to eat when I’m gone.” She pauses, raising her finger. “Dirty pun not intended.”

  
“Let’s go, then.” He picks back up his coat, only to glance back over to her. Right.

  
He disappears into his room and retrieves a jacket from from his closet. Solas tosses it to her as he heads for the door. Morinthe hesitates for a second, but she shrugs into it.

  
Solas locks the door behind them, and they head for the elevator. Morinthe folds her list and tucks it into her pocket.

  
“Morinthe,” he says as the doors close in front of them. “When are you leaving, anyway?”

  
“Tuesday,” she replies. “I’m taking the train to Denerim.”

  
“Ah, alright.” he says, looking down at his feet. Why is reality always so troublesome? He has to let her go, of course, can’t risk suffocating her. He’s pushed his luck enough already. “I will drive you to the station.”

  
It’s more than you had last time, he reasons. You will survive.

  
“Thank you,” she murmurs, but she’s wringing her hands together again. Perhaps he shouldn’t say anything, just let her be.

  
He’s still in disbelief, honestly. Perhaps in a ‘normal’ relationship, her answer to his confession would be considered unfavorable, but Solas is elated that she hadn't run out the door that instant. Better yet, she’s still here the next day. It’s the most promising development yet in this whirlwind ‘non’ romance they’re teetering in.

  
“Please do not wait two months to text me again, if you do not mind.” he says, attempting keep his tone light.

  
“I’ll try,” Morinthe answers with a nervous smile.

  
They make their way into the garage, and Morinthe hugs herself while fighting off a shiver.

  
“This place is just as creepy during the daytime.” Morinthe remarks, glancing about them. “This is definitely serial killer territory.”

  
“I have lived here five years, and so far I have yet to have been murdered, I promise you.” He chuckles, unlocking the car.

  
“Just you wait. They’ll be chalk lines on this pavement yet,” she says as she takes the passenger seat.

  
“Not any of ours, I hope.”

  
The grocery store is a short drive away, and it being a Saturday morning, there aren’t many people on the road.

  
“Is it always this icy here? How do you drive like this?” she questions, peering out the window at the street passing below them.

  
“Most of the year, yes, it is. And practice, mostly.” He idly pops his knuckles as they reach a red light. “Do you drive?”

  
“No,” she scoffs in amusement. “I ‘A’ do not have a car and ‘B’ probably won’t any time in the near future. Why bother, really?”

  
“Fair enough.” He allows. “You may need to learn, eventually, though.”

  
“Maybe,” she agrees with a shrug. “I’m more or less alright just taking the bus and walking so far, though. With the occasional taxi, too.”

  
“You’ve never had any trouble, have you, with anyone else when you’re traveling?” he carefully asks.

  
“Creeps, you mean?” she laughs. “Once or twice, but it’s all about confidence. Direct eye contact, chin up, shoulders squared. Don’t look like an easy target, is all. Most of those types are just rotten cowards, so that will usually be enough to scare them off.”

  
While he can believe it from her, Solas is admittedly not completely convinced. Apparently, this shows on his face.

  
“I keep a knife and some pepper-spray in my purse too, Solas.” she adds softly.

  
“Good,” he replies.

  
She’s always been a warrior, but he can’t help but picture how easy it would be for meaty hands to suddenly grab those narrow shoulders, or crush that elegant throat. Her strength in a fight had always been her sharp intellect, allowing her the advantage of catching others off guard. She’s never been one for a head on physical struggle, particularly with a larger foe. Aside from this, in their current reality, she hasn’t had as much practice in self defense, as far as he knows.

  
They arrive in the parking lot, and Morinthe scowls at the onslaught of cold that immediately hits them both once she opens the car door.

  
“I don’t know how you put up with this,” she growls.

  
“One grows used to it, after a time.” he comments.

  
“It at least heats up in the summer, right?” Morinthe sighs, blowing warm air on her cupped palms.

  
“Somewhat.” he replies. Solas smirks at her annoyed huff.

  
“So no, then?” she says.

  
“They are called the Frostbacks for reason, Morinthe.” he jests.

  
They grab a cart, which Morinthe insists upon pushing for some reason or another, and they continue on inside.

  
Holding her list in one hand, Morinthe quickly leads them into the produce section.

  
“Lettuce, cabbage, beets? Who eats beets anyway? Where is the damn basil…?” she thinks aloud as she scrutinizes the various greens. “Do you like fruit, by the way? Go ahead and grab some while we’re here. Good for you.”

  
“We could go find some dried basil easily, I’m sure.” Solas provide. Morinthe gives him a look then, like he’s just suggested she marry a hurlock.

  
“Fruit, now.” she quips, patting him impatiently on the arm. Solas concedes to walk away, and she continues on in her search.

  
Solas strolls through the aisles, eyes trailing over the various piles of apples, grapes, and melons. He notices in particular, though, one item.

  
He picks up one of the plums, turning it over in his hands. Solas can feel a faint blush building as his mind goes back to the dream. It’s not quite the same, but perhaps it could be worth a try.

  
He takes five, dropping them all in the plastic bag and securing them with a green tie.

  
He returns to the cart, smiling wryly as Morinthe bends over to pluck up some tomatoes.

  
Solas sets the plums down in the smaller shelf by the handle. Morinthe pauses for a moment as she spots them there.

  
“What is it?” he asks, doing his best not to smirk.

  
“N-nothing,” she stutters. “It’s nothing.”

  
They push along, and Morinthe’s eyes nearly narrow into slits with determination.

  
“Aha!” she suddenly cries, seizing up a small sealed package of the sought after herb. Morinthe grows dead silent as she realizes that every single person around them is now gawking at her. Morinthe gulps and whispers. “Found it.”

  
They make a hasty retreat into the cereal aisle.

  
“We need pasta.” Morinthe murmurs sheepishly. “Do you eat cereal, though?”

  
“No,” he replies. “I do not really drink dairy very often.”

  
“Okay then.” she says, and she pauses as her eyes catch something. “Those granola bars are the best. Do you eat granola?”

  
“I do not,” he says, reaching over and placing it in the cart. Before she has the chance to object, he says. “Take them on the road with you.”

  
“Alright,” she sighs, staring up at the ceiling for some kind of sign. “To the pasta we go, then.”

  
“We will need sauce as well, I assume?” He infers.

  
“You assume right.” Morinthe replies.

  
Both the sauce and the pasta are located in the same aisle, so each of them go after one item.

  
“Any brand in particular?” he calls to her. There seems to be an endless number of names and flashy labels, and all of them relatively similar.

  
“Whichever. Just not that Ragu stuff. Had it once, thought I was going to be sick.” Morinthe says, wrinkling her nose in disgust. A nug indeed.

  
He selects one at random and sets it into the cart next to the plums.

  
Solas glances over at her to find that Morinthe is standing on the tips of her toes, reaching for a box on the top shelf. Her fingers come just shy however no matter how much she stretches.

  
He waits a moment just to revel a bit in the image, but eventually Solas plucks down the box and holds it out to her.

  
Morinthe glowers wordlessly at him for a moment before violently snatching it away. Solas withholds his laughter, but it reaches his eyes. She narrows hers at him, and Solas swiftly bends down kisses her on the nose. Morinthe rolls her eyes as she tosses the package into the cart, but he catches the ghost of a smile as she turns away.

  
“Ass,” she mutters, pushing the cart along.

  
“What is next, then?” he asks.

  
“Bread.” she says. “And not the normal kind for sandwiches and stuff, but like the real deal. Gotta cut it up and everything.”

  
“I believe I follow, yes.” Solas answers. “That would be over this way.”

  
They spend about twenty minutes scrutinizing the different kinds. White or Antivan? Pre-toasted or no? Seasoning? All difficult questions, and Morinthe does not neglect a single one. Only once they have selected the perfect loaf does she allow them to move on.

  
“We’re almost done, just need beef.” she says.

  
Something dawns on him then. “Morinthe, did you really need a book to make spaghetti?”

  
Morinthe snickers, “You caught me hon. I’m dyslexic. The type in that damn thing was way too weird for me to make heads or tails of it. I was just looking at the pictures. Spaghetti is the only thing I know how to make, make well anyway.”

  
It makes sense, now that he thinks of it. He remembers her frustration when he’d tried to teach her how to write in Elvhen. Verbally she’d picked it up with ease, but something had just never clicked in the writing. She’d had trouble with Common too. He couldn’t understand it then, why someone so intelligent would struggle so. This answers a number of questions, certainly.

  
It’s enough of a breakthrough that something else nearly slips his notice.

  
Hon, he thinks with a small, disbelieving smile. She called me hon.

  
Morinthe’s moving on now, without a care. She hasn’t realized. He shouldn’t make a scene out of it, lest he run the risk of it not happening again.

  
He does his best to restrain the glee. For now.

  
“I feel like you may need more than plums to survive.” she says, glancing to him out of the corner of her eye. “Anything else come to mind?”

  
“Eggs would probably be practical.” he replies. She looks at him with those eyes, the ones that say she’s laughing at something he’s not in on. Then it hits him. “Morinthe, really now. That’s hardly original.”

  
She giggles but doesn’t comment further. They pick up the eggs and then some butter while they’re there.

  
Morinthe quizzes him some more on what he prefers to eat, but admittedly he can’t think of much. He’s generally rather picky, always has been, to the chagrin of his mother growing up. He’s also just never had much interest in eating in general as well. It’s always just been a means to an end, a way to sustain himself through his studies, nothing more.

  
She eventually just starts to pick up the basic essentials: sandwich meat, cheese, potatoes, some canned goods, etc.

  
“Considering your usual lifestyle, I am surprised you know how to shop so well,” he remarks.

  
“I used to do some of the shopping for the clan. Everyone pitches in, you know? I might buy too much, though. Stop me if I do.” she says.

  
She does end up doing just that, but he can’t bring himself to tell her so. Solas wouldn’t admit it for the world, but it’s actually rather nice to be doted on.

  
When they get to the checkout, while Morinthe is distracted with unloading everything onto the belt, Solas leans over to the cashier and whispers, “Would you please not say the total out loud? I will pay for it all on my card, whatever it may be.”

  
The teenager behind the counter gives him an odd look, but silently nods. Morinthe thankfully doesn’t notice, and Solas quickly crumples the receipt up and shoves it into his pocket.

  
She’s rather quiet on the ride home, feet sans flip flops and drawn up in her seat. The shoes, if one could even call them that at this point, have one strap that’s duct taped on, and the soles look as though they may turn to dust at any moment. Those will definitely have to go.

  
It starts sprinkling around the time they pull back into the parking garage, so they’re able to avoid being soaked once it starts pouring down. Between the two of them, they’re able to bring up all of the bags together. There aren’t too many, so it’s a relatively simple task.

  
Morinthe sets the bags down on the counter and goes about putting the refrigerated goods in their place. He takes on the things that have to be squirreled away into cabinets.

  
Morinthe leans down to place the plums into the drawer, and has he passes by he casually smacks her on the ass.

  
“I told you I had not forgotten.” he reminds her. Morinthe just shakes her head and sits up again. She does rub it, though, he smugly notes.

  
“So we’ve got plenty of time to kill before dinner.” she says. “Anything to do until then?”

  
“I unfortunately have a number of papers that I need to grade,” he replies. “And I will need my laptop to do so. I’m afraid you may have to find some way to entertain yourself for the time being.”

  
“Okay,” Morinthe accepts with a shrug. “I’m sure I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll take a shower.”

  
“Be my guest,” he says. “There’s towels in the closet in that smaller hallway, right across from the washer.”

  
Morinthe finds it quickly, and Solas sits down in bed as the shower comes on behind his head.

  
He’s made the horrible mistake of giving an undergrad course this semester, so the papers are far more of a slog than usual to get through. It’s rather shocking to think that all throughout high school, none of these children were ever taught how to construct a simple essay. Worse still, they often add flowery speech to confuse the fleeting point more, failing to realize they are taking a course on history, not literature.

  
Solas is brought out of his scowling by yet another endearing development. She’s singing, and if he’s not mistaken, it’s the same tune from the night before.

  
“Vhenan,” he whispers, now that he has the chance. That one will take a long time, and a great deal of patience. He can’t lose her again.

  
You don’t even deserve her, the voice hisses. Let her go, before you hurt her again. She doesn’t want this anyway.

  
He shuts his eyes, trying to drown out all sounds save for her muffled voice. His sweet Morinthe… He’d thought he was doing her a favor too when he cast her off before, hadn’t he? She nearly fell completely apart. No, he shouldn’t make that decision for her. He hasn’t the right to. She’ll stay if she wishes or leave.

  
He gets back to work again, focuses on the minor problem rather the major one. The shower shuts off, and Morinthe comes out, one towel wrapped around herself and another veiling her head and shoulders.

  
Morinthe lays down beside him, placing her drying head on his shoulder.

  
“So what are these papers about, anyway?” she asks.

  
“The Second Exalted March,” he dryly states.

  
“Ouch. Feel like you might be biased a bit?” she murmurs.

  
“A good teacher focuses on execution, not the viewpoint itself. I am grading for skill, not whether or not the child is woefully ignorant or disrespectful.” he replies. “Though it hardly makes the task any easier.”

  
“I believe in you,” she assures him, punctuating it with a press of her lips to his shoulder.

  
“At least someone does.” he sighs. Two down, thirty left to go.

  
She’s silent again for a while, long enough that he thinks for a moment that she’s gone to sleep. But then, she says, “Do you want to work on the painting again later?”

  
He nods.

  
“Do you think we can finish it in time, before I have to go?” She continues, playing with a loose thread on his shirt.

  
“I am honestly not certain.” he muses. “You may have to come and sit for me again.”

  
“Perhaps so,” she replies with a small smile. “We can’t let anything stand in the way of true art.”

  
“Indeed,” he agrees victoriously.

  
“You might be able to get some work done without me,” she muses, “If I maybe send some pictures every now and then for… inspiration.”

  
“Seems reasonable.” he says. “Be certain to catch some interesting angles, if you can.”

  
“Naturally.” she laughs. “I am a dancer, very flexible. You’d be surprised what kind of angles I can pull off.”

  
“I would be very interested in finding out, however.” he purrs. It’s a pity, really, that the towel covers her ears. He longs to sink his teeth into one, perhaps both. So many possibilities there.

  
Solas slips his hand under the towel and pinches the inside of her thigh, which of course makes her jump. He quickly removes it though, much to her chagrin, if her pout is anything to go by.

  
“I still have work to do, I’m afraid.” he says, showing a remarkable level of self control. Her lips just look so deliciously bitable when she does that, damn it all.

  
Morinthe hisses in frustration and buries her face into his shirt.

  
“You’re mean,” she sighs.

  
“As are you.” he replies smoothly.

  
Morinthe wordlessly growls into him, but doesn’t comment further. No, instead, she slowly shrugs the towel off of herself. She yawns and stretches her arms above her head, back arching just so.

  
Solas keeps his eyes on the screen. This student’s argument is actually competently constructed. Quite the pleasant surprise.

  
Her fingers smooth over his chest, reaching for the top button of his shirt.

  
The sentences are remarkably precise, not meandering like the others’. Straight to the point, just enough to back the thesis without going overboard.

  
The first five buttons are undone, and she’s playing with the downy auburn hairs on his chest.

  
All of the sources are cited appropriately, and the outline is also correctly filled out to the specifications of the prompt as well.

  
The shirt is completely open now, but rather than focusing on the bared chest, she’s turned attention to his neck. The slow, soft touch of lips against his skin tickles horribly.

  
There are a few problems, of course. One of their paragraphs could be expanded upon some, and there’s a couple grammar errors that stand out. Minor points at best, though. A ninety-five, he decides with a small smile.

  
Her teeth suddenly sink into the junction of his neck and shoulder, and she sucks the soft tissue until the blood vessels pop. There’s going to be quite the mark later. It’s an unfair advantage really; none of his bites ever show well on her skin.

  
He moves on to the next paper, and she leaves about three smaller marks trailing down his collar. Solas is able to stop himself from jerking, but he does swallow hard. She smiles wickedly against his skin, drawing a soothing lick across the irritated flesh as reward.

  
The next one isn’t as good, admittedly. They’ve tried, at least, so he won’t fail them outright. He can make something of this yet, if they’re willing to put the work in. An eighty-three, then.

  
She ups the ante, lying across his chest now. He adjusts his arms so that he can type over her, unintentionally brushing her nipples as he does. He does his best to act like he doesn’t hear her happy sigh.

  
The next entry is the worst he’s seen yet. Barely a page long, no sources cited, and the writer was clearly baked during the process of constructing it. Undergraduates…

  
He perhaps not so unintentionally touches her again, pillowing his wrist on her breast as he scrolls over to his next email. When he tries to pull away, however, her hand gently closes over his, pressing it in closer. He lets his hand grow limp and keeps his attention on the newly downloaded document.

  
It is getting rather difficult to continue scrolling with only the tips of his fingers as more and more of his hand is slid toward her chest. Eventually, he is completely cupping her breast, which slots rather fatefully into his palm. He schools away that stray thought and switches to the other hand to finish looking through the paper.

  
This is impeded again, however. She lifts her leg slowly, until it’s straight up in the air, and then past that point. Solas barely escapes having his nose poked by a sultry toe.

  
“Can you put your foot behind your head too, Solas?” she asks, hooking the limb securely behind her neck.

  
Solas does not comment, and he simply maneuvers his hands back as they were, somehow being able to see the screen past her thigh. Must they be so… opulent?

  
_Yes_ , his untrained thoughts enthuse.

  
She places her hand over his right again, and she brings it to her belly button this time. Morinthe begins to idly pet it now,though he can only barely keep his fingers from twitching.

  
“I could teach you how, if you can’t.” She says, giving his hand a fond pat.

  
“Perhaps another time.” he turns her down, with some amount of effort.

  
“But it’s fun,” she insists. His hand is slid lower.

  
“I am not that flexible, I am afraid.” He's losing, because he's reacting, but what is the point in fighting this? He’d never had a chance to begin with.

  
“You never know if you don't try…” she says, dragging a finger along his jaw and over his bobbing Adam's apple.

  
He clears his throat but fails to back it up with any real words.

  
“Oh, are you not talking to me again Professor?” she huffs, shifting his hand downward again. He hasn’t read a single word of this damn document yet. “Pity, You have a pretty voice. I like the sounds it makes when I do this.”

  
She suddenly pinches his nipple, and he gives a breathy grunt of surprise. This awards him a white grin, paired with a victorious swipe of a tongue across her teeth.

  
“Just like that, thank you. You’re a lovely assistant.” she laughs.

  
He can’t really move at this point. He is ensnared completely. How can anyone possibly hold that position for so long without getting tired?

  
“You’re a little far away, dear. Closer please.” she lifts her other leg, and this time it’s his neck it catches. Her already raised one moves to loop around the other side as she pulls him forward. Thankfully the only place there is for the laptop to fall is onto the bed.

  
His face stops a breath’s width away from hers, the thighs serving as a barrier between them. She settles her hands on his chest and cheerfully grins at him.

  
“So how was that paper?” she asks.

  
“What paper?” he sighs, shaking his head.

  
“I win,” she chirps. It is she who kisses his nose this time.

  
“Was there not dinner to be cooked?” he dazedly asks.

  
“Isn’t it a bit early for that?” she poses with a quizzical brow.

  
“Hmm, perhaps you are right. How about just a quick snack, then?”

  
She only has time to shriek before he wraps his arms around the backs of her legs, surges them upward, and buries his face between them.

  
_Who’s won after all, vhenan?_


	6. Chapter 6

He gets up, even taking a handkerchief out of his damn pocket to wipe his face off. Morinthe really only barely registers it. She’s too focused on staring at the ceiling and slowly remembering how brain cells are supposed to work.

“Okay,” she huffs, finally able to sit up. Sorta. “Let’s say it’s a draw.”

“If you wish,” he concedes. He’s smirking like the smug asshole he is.

“I don’t like ties, though. Be prepared.” she quips. She manages to actually use her legs now too for something other than just helplessly lying there spread out and useless. Morinthe stumbles out of the bed and and goes to the bathroom to pick up her clothes. Upon a tentative sniff, however, she decides it might be best to put those back in her bag.

She has an idea then, though, something that makes her smirk rather wickedly. Morinthe returns to the bedroom and, seeing that Solas has wandered away, quickly makes for his closet.

Mostly different long sleeved polos, button downs, sweaters, and a few pairs of pants. She’s already got one of his t-shirts, and she quickly finds another treasure.

Sweatpants, and with a nice draw string waist. Perfect. And who needs underwear, really?

Morinthe strolls out in search of her something. Her smug, freckle butted, red eared something with the cute chuckle snort. She comes up short, unfortunately. Solas has disappeared all of the sudden, and her cute and enticing wardrobe change has no eyes to relish in it. Pity.

With a scowl, she sits down on the couch instead. It’s hard to see the snow falling outside now that it’s getting darker, so she turns off the one tall lamp beside her.

Solas really does have a great set up here. When the clouds cover the stars above, there are plenty down below, with the heart of downtown beneath them. Haven wouldn’t be a spot on the map if not for the history, given the landscape, but due to sheer significance on a religious level to these silly Andrastians the place is quite a center, even under all the snow.

Morinthe doesn’t put much stock into the old tales, really. A hole in the sky, the world in chaos, and yet another faithful human woman there to lead the masses back from the brink, or so the Chantry would tell them. Their herald, the voice of Andraste returned, had saved them all from the shattered Veil, an ancient darkspawn Magister, and even from a false, heathen god. It’s a lot to swallow, to say the least, and this wouldn’t exactly be the first time the Chantry would fabricate details for the excuse of inspiration. After five hundred years, those wicked sisters could feed quite a bit of bullshit into the minds of the fools who would trust them.

She’s got nothing against religion itself, not in theory, but the organized ones get to her, for obvious reasons. Call her cynical, but all she can ever see is a bunch of manipulative people using the ones they're supposed to give guidance to. Personal experience tainting her view, perhaps.

Solas appears from the back hallway, an easel and a canvas tucked under his arm.

“Are we painting already? I just got dressed again.” Morinthe sighs, the end of her sentence intercut by a drawn out yawn.

“Not just yet, no. There is still dinner, and I must recreate last night’s sketch perfectly when we pose you.” Solas muses as he sets up the easel.

“So more sex will be in order then?” she chuckles. “Will wonders ever cease?”

Morinthe catches herself staring at the snow again, and there’s a feeling her gut she knows all too well. She wants to run, not in the fleeing for your life sort of way, but to feel the wind in her face and make her heart beat like a bass drum in her ears. There’s been far too much sitting down these past few days. She needs to move, perhaps only for a short while.

“Can you start without me, dinner I mean?” she asks as she sits up.

“Why?” He returns slowly, lips taut.

“Oh don’t start now,” She chuckles, rising to her feet. “I want to go for a walk. I’ll even leave all of my stuff here, if it pleases you.”

Solas rolls his eyes. “You're not my prisoner, Morinthe, but isn’t it a bit dark out? The snow has started falling again too.”

“I won’t wander off or anything, just want some air. Be back in ten minutes, I swear.” Morinthe chirps. She leans up on tiptoes to punctuate it with a peck on the cheek.

“Wear my coat, at least, and grab a proper pair of socks out of the drawer please.” He sighs.

“Sure thing!” she laughs, giving him a quick hug before hunting down the insulators as requested.

* * *

 

Morinthe is already out of the front door and into the snow when she remembers that she’s still not wearing underwear. Oh well, she won’t be long anyway.

There’s not much snow sticking right now, so the sidewalks are mostly clear. Morinthe is drawn toward the street light. She leans up against it while she with only the barest of interest leafs through her phone. It’s more of a reflex than anything else, honestly.

It’s quiet out in the way that it only is whenever there’s snow muffling sound. This makes her a bit nervous, honestly, but she figures that axe murderers are usually not very quiet. In the movies, anyway. What is her obsession with serial killers these days?

The street’s pretty dead, though. Part of being in a nicer neighbourhood. Rich people never go outside; they have gym memberships for that. There aren’t even an cigarette butts on the street, forget broken beer bottles. That sort of thing builds character in a street, makes it tough. This is just sad.

It’s nice getting away for even a moment. It’s not like torture being around him or anything, the opposite really. Feels more like she could just wake up one morning and find out that it’s been three years without even realizing the time had gone by. That’s no way to get anything done, and she does actually want more than to spend all her life lying around in bed. A little bit more, anyway.

Dorian has texted her, she realizes with a swift implosion of the chest. She can’t handle that right now, not if she wants to keep her promise and not run off into the mountains. He probably only wants to let her know she’s left something back in his flat, but in its usual way her brain leaps to the worst conclusion. Maybe she can build up enough courage to open it later. Maybe.

She really should try to patch things up a bit, though. Despite the whole fight thing, Morinthe does actually like Dorian. A lot, actually. It’d be pretty sad if she just let him drift away over something as stupid as her self destructive bullshit. He’d been right, about all of it, and she’s always just too damn stupid and defensive in the moment to accept it.

“You’re almost halfway through your twenties,” she mutters furiously, “And you’re still acting like a sixteen year old.”

That just about sums it up, though, doesn’t it? Eight years later, and she’s still frozen in time, unable to move forward. This is probably what therapy or whatever is for, right? She’s never really told the whole story to even a friend before. How could she possibly open up to a random stranger?

Morinthe sighs through her nose, and she watches small the cloud of mist that blossoms and dies in front of her. It really is colder than Andraste’s dusty tits out isn’t it?

She creates a new note on her phone, and at the top she labels in all capital letters:

ADULT THINGS TO DO:

1) Decide on at least a Semi-permanent residence.  
2) Start thinking about possible career options. Seriously.  
3) Apologise to Dorian first, though. You were an asshole.  
4) Look into therapy. You’re seriously whacked in the head, and clearly can’t handle it on your own.  
5) Actually, you need to apologise to a lot of people. All of them actually. Gift baskets? Do they let you send, “Sorry for being a Fuck Head?” cards? Investigate.  
6) Thank Solas, like, a million times. And then some. Also, try to give the guy a clear answer on this whole thing. Stop being so wishy washy damn it.

Morinthe reads over the list a couple times. All pretty satisfactory, manageable goals. It’s missing something, though. She holds her breath for a moment before adding a final note.

7) No more running.

Morinthe’s lips set in a firm line. Yes, this is terrifying, but everything that’s worth it is at least a little scary. The alternative to trying certainly isn’t taking her anywhere.

She tucks the phone into her pocket and sags against the lamp post. It’s such a tiny thing, really. She hasn’t even done any of this stuff yet, but Morinthe feels exhausted already.

“I’m going to try to be happy, you hear?” she chuckles, swiping away a stray tear. “For real this time.”

And you’re not going to stop me, she seethes. Morinthe quickly pushes that face from her mind, though. This isn’t about revenge. That’s a fire that’s never satisfied once it starts to burning.

It really is miserably cold out, and the lack of underwear is really starting to bother her. Isn’t is supposed to be spring in a month or two? Spring in Haven must just mean there’s only an inch of snow on the ground rather than eight feet. How does anyone here stand it?

She’s not particularly eager to go back inside either. From freezing cold to broiling in an instant. She’s glad that she won’t be sticking around long enough to get tired of how clingy he is. Morinthe just isn’t ready for the prospect of putting up with that full time just yet. He’ll definitely take some getting used to first, if this thing they have is to last any.

Sera can be clingy too, but she’s more subtle about it at least. Morinthe is still pretty certain Sera is more hurt than she’d let on in her texts, but hopefully they’ll be able to settle it out. They always do. If Sera doesn’t want anything to do with her, she would have made that perfectly clear. She has always been a pretty honest person, at the very least.

They’d bonded back in the day over a shared amount of teenaged angst and unfocused ambition, which had lead to somewhat disastrous results. She regrets a lot of it, honestly, but she wouldn’t have gone back on the whole Sera bit though. They’d needed each other back then, and Sera probably would’ve ended up going to juvie if Morinthe hadn’t been there to pull her back away from her worst ideas.

They’d had to pay some fines for spray paint on public property, trespassing, minor offences like that. Sera had a much longer rap sheet that Morinthe, however. Her adopted mother had been a harpy, to say the least. Wanted Sera to be the cookie cutter, perfect little charity case she could show off to her ‘friends’ at company dinners. It’s not right, really, for a person to treat a kid like a pet. Was it really any surprise when the girl started to act out?

She still remembers that day back in the third grade. They hadn’t been friends at the time because, being the proper Dalish brat she was, Morinthe had refused to associate with someone who abhorred ‘elfiness’ so much. Sera had always had the prettiest hair and the nicest little dresses every day, like a perfect little doll. She always sat on the bench by the swings at recess looking pissed everyday, because she knew she’d get in trouble if she got her clothes dirty.

One morning, Sera had marched into class with the most beautifully primped curls Morinthe had ever seen. She’d absolutely reeked of hair spray and looked miserable. Sera only made it about an hour into class before asking to go to the bathroom. Morinthe had watched the girl slip a pair of safety scissors into her pocket just before she’d left.

Sera came back about ten minutes later with about a foot of her hair completely gone. What was left was a choppy, ragged mess, and the entire class stared in amazement as Sera, beaming brighter than the sun, strolled over to her seat as if nothing was amiss.

The teacher ended up dragging her out of the room by the ear, which was followed by a hissing conversation on the phone with the principle as the two tried and failed to find a good excuse to tell Sera’s mother. The little girl had shown up the next day with a rather nasty bruise on her cheek, but no one said anything. Her mother had been a force to be reckoned with in the community, after all. Another thing they’d shared in common.

Sera had smiled anyway, even though it must have hurt. She’d still won, after all. She’d kept that crooked style all through middle and highschool, cutting it back to ribbons no matter how many times her mother tried to right it. She’d even shaved it all off at one point. Morinthe hadn’t really understood at the time, not completely, but retrospectively, the story still gives her a wry chuckle every time she thinks of it.

Does Sera still cut her own hair? Morinthe hopes so.

Morinthe lets her eyes drift shut, lulled by memories and the soft silence, only to suddenly jump.

Her phone abruptly buzzes in her pocket. She suspects it may be Solas, as she’s probably been out here longer than ten minutes without a word back, or perhaps Sera has texted her again. She quickly fishes it out again. Morinthe stares at the message for a moment without unlocking the phone. It’s short enough to read in its entirety regardless.

_Is this Morinthe?_

There’s a number on her screen rather than a name, and Morinthe has absolutely no clue who it possibly could be either. She doesn’t give out her information to just anyone. Morinthe is a pretty paranoid girl, and with plenty reason. This, for whatever reason, gives her gut a sudden twist. There’s just something off about it.

_Who? I think you have the wrong number_ , she quickly sends back. It’s ridiculous, but she knows better than to ignore her instincts.

It isn’t long before she gets a reply.

_Cute. We’ll be in touch soon._

It’s strange, how suddenly one’s perception of an environment can change. The quiet seems more deliberate, the solitude more sharply empty, and the cold far more biting.

It’s probably nothing, just some stupid kid sending creepy texts to a random number. Some dumb brat who somehow knows her name. Shit, maybe someone has written her up on a bathroom stall as revenge at one point or another. It’s just a joke, has to be.

Joke or not, she feels rather turned off of the whole fresh air thing. Maybe it is time to go back inside and curl up with her nice, six foot tall friend. She wonders whether or not he can throw a punch. If not, it’s always a good time to learn how. Morinthe’s slugged more than a couple blokes in her day, but the vertically challenged bit can be a hinderance.

Morinthe quickly shoves the phone back into its place and power walks it back inside, feeling invisible eyes following her the entire way. Why is she so wired all of the sudden? It’s nothing, nothing at all.

Solas is already working when she comes in, but it’s hard to make any sense of what he’s putting on the small canvas just yet. The colors are all more water than paint right now, though they look to be mostly greens and browns. Rather than disturb him, she peeks her head into the kitchen instead. The noodles seem to be coming along nicely, and the meat is already mostly browned. She must have been out there longer than she’d thought.

The sauce still needs to be added into the meat, so she empties about half of the jar. Morinthe remembers then the so hard fought for basil, so she goes to cut some for the mixture. It’s all good and grand until she ends up nearly cutting the tip of her finger off.

It’s weird, like her subconscious is more shaken up than her brain is. The idiocy of it all is infuriating, but no amount of logic can make her hand stop trembling. She should probably put the knife down, either way.

So, she sets the knife on the counter, and she returns to the living room. Maybe just a sit on the couch will get her back into sorts again. Creators, she really ought to see a doctor or something about this; Anxiety makes it so damn hard to get on with her damn life.

“Painting going well?” She asks idly.

“More or less,” he replies with a shrug. “There isn’t much to go on at the moment, but I know what I am heading toward, more or less.”

Morinthe closes her eyes, letting her mind focus more on the faint scratches of brush on canvas rather than whatever else is trying to cloy for prominence in her mind.

“Hey Solas?” she asks.

“Yes?”

“Thanks, for giving me a place to crash and stuff.” she mumbles. “I really have no idea what I’ve been doing these past few days. Do you think Dorian will ever forgive me?”

“You will never know unless you ask him.” Solas says.

“Probably.” She agrees. “I need to get on that soon. I think I’m going to start saving to get an apartment.”

If he’s confused by the abrupt change in subject, he doesn’t show it.

“In Denerim?” he asks. Solas frowns, turns his head to the side a bit, and then he begins mixing away on his pallet once again.

“Not sure, really. It’ll take a while, which will give me some time to think on it.” she muses. “I’d like to live somewhere near a beach one day, I think.”

“Not in the woods?” he remarks.

“No.” she whispers. Morinthe glares for a moment at the air, before she begrudgingly swallows the vinegar memory. “I don’t really like forests anymore.”

“Oh,” he murmurs.

She notices that the brush has stopped. He’s looking at her again, she realizes, but he isn’t at the same time.

“You’re being weird again.” she tells him, though she tries to keep her tone light.

“I am strange.” he counters, but he breaks the not-stare at least.

“Well, everyone is a little strange.” she allows. “But you push it sometimes, you know.”

“I’m sorry. I will try to do better.” he relents, focusing back on his work.

“Aren’t we all…” she chuckles as she melts back into the cushions. “It’s okay.”

“Tired?” he comments.

“Yeah, all of the sudden.” she mumbles back. Morinthe can feel her body already floating away from her even less grounded mind. “Do you think I’ll have sweet dreams tonight?”

“Would you like to?” he poses back.

“I’m not sure, really.” Morinthe sighs. “Not of anything right now. It might be nice, though.”

He’s quiet for a few moments then, letting the silence fall over the room like the blanket of snow outside. “You will, then, I promise.” he finally says.

“How do you know?” Morinthe asks, peeking one eye open at him.

“I have a sense for such things.” Solas vaguely answers.

“You talk like a fun house mirror, you know that?” Morinthe grumbles. She thinks about saying something else, but the words won’t stitch together. They’re all too far off and scattered in, out, and between. She’s still scared, though uncertain of what exactly has her so shaken. It’s like walking blind through a swarm of gnats with razor blades for wings.

Her mind wants to make sense of it, clip the razors from the flies and put each in their own pile. Maybe that’s the problem, though. There’s no point trying to rationalize the irrational. Perhaps it’s time to burn it all, destroy it and start over with new thoughts and habits that don’t cut so much.

It’s just too scary though, to go all the way. She’ll burn out like that. Baby steps for now, and maybe she’ll eventually be able to trick herself into being something closer to normal.

Leave it alone for tonight, she thinks. Now’s time for spaghetti and freckles, no more razors or bleeding scars. She sets one cornerstone in her mind, though.

In this new life, whatever it may be, she wants to keep her people. Sera’s going to be there, and Josie, and Leli, and maybe even Dorian. She’s going to be a better friend this time, one who doesn’t constantly scare the crap out of everyone who cares about her.

Maybe he’ll want to be a part of that too, Morinthe thinks. She studies the focused narrow of Solas’ eyes as he sits with perfect stillness, plotting out his next brush stroke with pin-point accuracy. What lovely curves and edges he has, sloping and exacting elegance made flesh. Yes, she’ll make a space for him, whichever one will fit, and perhaps he’ll want to take it.

If she doesn’t run him off first.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sera has always been attracted to sharp things, for better or worse. Pain’s realler than tears or screams. Stays there, leaves proof. What’s a shout though? Just hot air that’s there one second and gone the next. A knife will leave something you can point to and say, “Yeah, that was the time I nearly threw myself out the window.”

It’s not all that great, though. Once it’s there, all you want to do is hide it from everyone else. It’s just too scary. They start up with the questions and the concern, because they don’t understand, or maybe they do. It’s awkward either way, like being caught with your knickers round your ankles.

That’s where the needles come in. Best of both worlds, you see. Get the pain, leave a mark, but it’s a prettier one. People don’t ask what’s wrong or if your mum never hugged you enough, not usually. Make the hurts into something better, something to be proud of. Nobody has to know what they really mean, and you can wear sleeves as short as you want.

It was a while before she’d had the idea of doing the inking herself. She’d been bad at it, really bad, for a time anyway. Thankfully she’d had a friend who gave her plenty of nasty pig skin to practice on, and eventually the blurry blobs of hooks of scribbles started to look like actual shapes.

She’s no professional, but she’s actually managed to land herself something like a job even. She’s only an apprentice still, so the boss usually only lets her sit in on most of the clients, unless they’re getting one of the little goofy stencils of black and white kitty cats they have on the wall. She has a lot of fun at the shop, though. For once in her life, it’s like she’s actually found something she’s good at, other than screwing things up anyway.

There’s a lady on the farthest side of the bench from her as possible giving her nervous looks, so as Sera glances down at the screen of her phone again she catches the shiny knob of her tongue ring between her teeth. Pearl clutchers are none of her concern, after all. Bench is public property. she can shove it.

  
Sera’s been fear-cited all day now. She’d flat out refused to do the one client Boss-man had thrown her way-- hands too shaky to hold a fork, much less a needle. Sera has a lot of things she wants to say, a lot of them not so nice, but she can’t quite place the words together. She’s not too sure that she should, either, if she wants to have a chance to say anything else at all.

Morinthe’s always been the fluttering sort. Pretty and sweet, yeah, but impossible to catch a hold of. Bright colors always a breath away from your fingers just before the wind comes through and carries them far, far away.

The wind’s coming back around her direction again, though. There’s no way of knowing how long it will, but she hopes to make the best of things while she can.

Sera wonders what she’ll think of her now. She’d had the sides of her head shaved, arms more colorful, and a lot more studs shimmering along her ears since last they’d seen each other. Morinthe probably won’t care, but Sera can’t help being nervous regardless. There’s a difference between the opinion of some human tight-arse and her best friend, after all.

Does she look the same still? Morinthe doesn’t post pictures online very often, hasn’t ever really been into the whole social media thing. Sera can’t imagine she’d change anything though. Same haircut, same thrift store sweatshirts and leggings, and never a smudge of makeup as a long as they’ve known each other.

She’s been in Orleis, Sera’s heard anyway. Maybe she’ll walk onto the platform in a big mask with blue hair and wearing window drapes or something. There’s no way to know until she gets here, of course, but that doesn’t mean her brain won’t come up with the worst possible scenario.

Sera feels like she should have a sign or something, like in the movies right? What if she looks so different now that Morinthe won’t recognize her? What if Morinthe doesn’t look anything like herself anymore?

The train pulls in about three minutes late. The doors to the car in front of her open, and dozens of nameless faces pour out. A few moments pass without a single sight of her friend. Sera stands up to look elsewhere on the platform, but she’s frozen in place instantly.

It really is like a scene out of a movie. She steps out, evening embers of sun shining in her hair, on her cheeks, and in her eyes. She looks around herself a bit before she finds Sera; she can swear the world gets all slow as Morinthe smiles. Just the same, like it’s barely been a second that’s gone by.

Sera manages to pick her boots up somehow, and they meet each other in the middle of the platform.

“Hey bug.” Sera whispers.  
“Nice to see you, Sera,” Morinthe murmurs back.

Now that she’s closer, she’s a bit more real looking. Circles under the eyes, hair a little disheveled, smile is a bit fragment-y. Wind has been an undertow, it seems.

Sera wraps her arms around her; it’s sort of like hugging a plank of wood for a second. Morinthe returns it eventually, though.

She doesn’t say so, but Sera knows she hasn’t eaten anything. Probably afraid of throwing up. There’s a cafe in the station, sticky buns and all, and it seems perfect for the occasion. Good chance to get some words out maybe. Just the bare minimum though.

Sera goes right for the hot fudge sundae, and Morinthe settles on a cappuccino with a honey drizzled biscuit.

“You got residency or nothing, do you?” Sera infers, shoving a heavy spoonful into her mouth. It catches a little on her tongue ring, so, with a grimace, Sera pops the stud out and places it on the table for the time being.

Morinthe rolls her eyes, but the corners of em’ are still smiling.

“No, I don’t. I’ve been saving, though. I have enough to last me for a while.” Morinthe says. “I was working three jobs until I left, you know.”

“Three?” Sera balks. “Figures. Only you’d be crazy enough to try to make that work.”

“Well, I waitressed and worked retail during the week, cleaned houses on Saturdays and Sundays.” Morinthe reflects. “Rounds out to about sixty hours a week. That’s about how much people work at a full time job, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Sera mumbles uncomfortably. “So did you really drop it all, just like that?”

“I gave a two week notice to each one.” Morinthe replies with a shrug. “My bosses were all good people. I wouldn’t just screw them over like that.”

“Two weeks, huh?” Sera echoes, glancing over at a Qunari guy walking his tiny daughter around on his shoulders. “That seems a bit on the plan-y side for you, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I didn’t really know I was leaving yet.” Morinthe sighs. “I just had a feeling, I guess. Things weren’t going well.”

“You know, if you wanted, you could probably put some of those savings into an apartment or something.” Sera dares to suggest. “Or maybe even a new pair of shoes, at least.”  
Morinthe hums in her throat. “I don’t know. I feel like if I tried to move in anywhere, I’d just want to go some place else the instant I was settled. But then I’d be stuck there, wouldn’t I? And you know I hate spending money on myself when I don’t have to.”

“You were in Haven, yeah? Surprised your damn toes haven’t fallen off.” Sera grunts.

“So, what’s the rent going to look like? I won’t be able to get a job for a bit without my working visa, but I can pay.” Morinthe insists.

“Don’t worry about it.” Sera deflects off. “Not until you can work anyway. I’ve got a good thing with my landlord, rent’s real low. We’ll be just fine.”

“What are you up to these days, anyway?” Morinthe asks.

“Got an apprenticeship at a tatt place,” Sera proudly chirps. “I live in a room above the store. Have to work at a game store too to keep up with everything, but it’s pretty great all in all, I’d say.”

“Is your boss going to be okay with me being there?” Morinthe asks. Great, now she’s got that stupid look on her face, the one where she thinks she’s being a bother.

“Yeah, yeah, I already asked.” Sera says. “He might make you pee in a cup, but otherwise you’re in the clear.”

“Sounds like the decent sort.” Morinthe remarks.

“He’s an arsehole really, but I suppose he’s pretty okay.” Sera shrugs, violently stabbing her spoon into the mountain of cream once again. This is probably going to make her sick later, but screw it.

“I never knew you wanted to be a tattoo artist.” She reflects. That sweater she’s wearing is a man’s, Sera realizes. It’s so huge on her frame that the collar hangs off of one of her shoulders and the sleeves cover all but the tips of her fingers. This knowledge incites a familiar bitterness in her stomach.

“Me neither.” Sera replies. “I was just getting one a few months ago in that same place when I had the idea. Had a friend who put a good word in with Boss man for me. Rest is history.”

“A friend, or one of your other friends?” Morinthe drawls.

“Just a friend friend.” Sera murmurs. “I don’t run that way so much anymore. It was fun while it lasted, but juvie’s arse. Cafeteria is better than school’s, though.”

“Good.” Morinthe says. “Those pranks could go a little far sometimes. You really scared me, you know.”

“Right back at you.” Sera flatly retorts.

Morinthe lays her head down on the table hiding her face beneath a halo of hair. “What a pair we make, huh?”

“Yeah,” she snickers. “Mum could never stand you. Funny is, you were probably the only reason I wasn’t locked up sooner.”

“I have always been better at giving advice than taking it, haven’t I?” she mumbles into the table top. Sera wants to pet that shiny hair, but she’d likely get something in it. Hands always dirty with something.

“That’s coz you have no sense bug,” Sera snorts. “You’re a right ninny sometimes. A lot of times.”

“Yeah, I am.” Morinthe relents.

“So who’s this sod you were shacking up with anyway?” She doesn’t want to know, but she has to.

“Just a nice guy, really.” she muses. Morinthe sits up and leans back into her chair. “A little weird, but nice.”

“How weird? Bad weird? Slept with his cousin weird?” Sera probes, ears twitching anxiously.

“As wonderfully imaginative as ever.” Morinthe dryly observes. “No. Not like that. Just sort of a nerdy loner type, for the most part.”

“You always have been into nerds.” Sera sighs. “I don’t get it. You’re fun. Why would you want to hang around a shut in who’s got his nose shoved in a book all day?”

“I dunno,” Morinthe says with a shrug. Sera doesn’t like the way she softly smiles down into her cup. “And I do like to read too; well, I like listening to books anyway. Just don’t have much time these days.”

“Not enough time in the world for that nonsense.” Sera grunts as she pops her knuckles over her empty bowl. “In’t a single thing out of a one of any of them fat bundles of paper that’s ever helped me since I left school. Even when I was in it they didn’t do any good. What’s the point?”

“There doesn’t have to be a point for something to be worth it.” Morinthe answers softly. “Aren’t the best parts of life the ones that aren’t really important at all? Nothing riding on it, no consequences?”

“What’s ridin’ is an entire afternoon you could have spent actually doing something.” Sera says. She stands up from the table and dumps the plastic bowl into the trash.

“Whatever then.” Morinthe follows after her, silent footsteps completely overshadowed by Sera’s carefree trotting.

“That sort’s no good for you Mo.” Sera scoffs. “You ain’t got the attention span.”

“I suppose I wouldn’t really know.” she sighs. Morinthe looks down at the ground, or more really her hands as they walk. “It’s not a big deal anyway.”

Sera’s stomach turns. Just by the way she says that, Sera knows instinctively that this is a very big deal. A good friend would be supportive, probably, as long as he wasn’t a git. She’s not really in the mood to be one of those, though, or to put up with nasty old men sticking their noses in where they aren’t wanted.

“Want to call a cab?” Sera asks once they’re out on the street.

“Could we walk?” Morinthe suggests. “I’m tired of sitting.”

“Yeah, probably. Shop’s only a few blocks away.” Sera answers with a shrug. “You ain’t got a suitcase or nothing?”

“No, course not.” Morinthe scoffs as they maneuver down the sidewalk. “You know how expensive those things are? Backpack is all I need.”

“You carry everything you own in a backpack?” Sera wonders. “Damn, wish I could manage that. I have too much crap.”

“It’s not all that great.” Morinthe says. “There’s a lot of things I just can’t buy, even if I wanted to, and I can’t just load stuff onto my friends or anything.”

“Spose’ not.” Sera concedes.

Denerim’s like a bunch of concrete building blocks all stacked on top of each other, all sharp grey lines and rough pavement. There are sparks of color here and there, but only in the streetlights and the bright signs over fast-food chains. It’s starting to get dark out,though, and as they walk down the sidewalk the streets begin to gradually light up in rainbow shades of neon.

“Feel like a drink?” Sera probes, glancing up through the barred windows of a liquor store as they pass by.

“Not really.” Morinthe’s phone buzzes, so she slips it out of her back pocket. “Is there a park or something around here?”

“You want to go to the park? In the dark?” Sera slowly repeats back. “We going to dance naked? Not everyone’s got a tan like you do-- you don’t want to see what’s going on underneath this jacket bug.”

Morinthe doesn’t answer immediately. She frowns at whatever is on the screen, and she looks a little pale if Sera isn’t imagining it.

“Shoot, I was so looking forward to the child sacrifices too.” Morinthe eventually tuts. She schools her face back as quickly as it had fallen. “Seriously though, is there somewhere outside we can go? I still want to stretch my legs some more.”

“Well…” Sera drawls. “There is a park, but not a grassy one. We’d have to stop by the shop first, at least.”

“What do you mean?” Morinthe asks.

“Do you still remember how to skate, bug?” Sera questions with a flash of sharp teeth.

* * *

 

They make a short stop by the shop, not long enough to really look around or anything, just to grab the board. Bug doesn’t even come inside, just stares all wide eyed at the lights and the posters in the window. Being fair, she always looks like that, but it’s not doe-y or anything. Hard to really explain, but there’s just a sharpness to her.

Sera normally doesn’t trust people like that, the ones always figuring something behind their faces. Emmalder was that way, always hidin’ and trickin’ with sweet smiles. There’s no lying in Mo, though, except to herself maybe. She’s more polite than Sera is, but she never says something she flat out doesn’t mean to save face.

The shop is open, but quiet. There’s never anybody on a Tuesday night, too busy passed out from working all day. Boss man’s in the back working on his most recent wrought-iron master piece, if the sounds are anything to go by. The other half of the shop’s bottom floor is just a big garage full of scrap metal and broken ink machines. The guy is a hoarder, but he’ll never admit it.

“Got a new girl, huh?” A voice croaks from the corner.

Sera jumps a little-- old bat is always so damn quiet. Mira’s reclining in the corner, only one drooping eye cracked open at her. She’s covered from neck to wrists to ankles in ink, but never on her face. She’s never met a person who hasn’t regretted that, or so Mira says.

“No,” Sera snorts. “Old girl, just friends. She don’t swing that way anyhow.”

“That’s a shame.” Mira grunts, shifting back into the recliner and shutting her eyes once again.

Sera quickly runs up the tiny staircase behind the counter to her apartment. It’s just a living room, a bedroom, a kitchenette, and a toilet, but it’s good enough for her. She needs a minute to find her board in the piles of dirty laundry and various bits and bobbles. She does find it eventually, though, and she’s quick to get back outside.

“No helmet?” Morinthe jibes.

“Emmbald always made me wear that pink one with the butterflies on it, remember?” Sera remarks.

“I do, actually.” Morinthe says. “Didn’t we try to burn it?”

“It didn’t really work well, only browned the styrofoam a bit.” Sera muses. “I think we ended up just throwing it into the lake.”

“Anticlimactic.” She comments.

The sun’s embers have receded into the bottom of the blue-violet sky by the time they reach the park. The place is deserted, which is actually a pretty rare thing. Usually there’s a whole lot of kids up past Mummy and Daddy’s curfew hanging about, but she and Morinthe seem to be the only ones there tonight.

The park has all of the standard dips, ramps, rails, and the like. Much fancier than the street in front of Malder’s big white shack, but somehow not quite as fun. Special, might be a better word.

“You haven’t still got your unicorn roller blades do you?” Sera asks her.

“Excuse you, Rainbow Dash is a pegasus.” Morinthe tuts. “And no, I unfortunately forgot about them…”

“Oh yeah, right.” Sera murmurs.

Sera still remembers that night, like it was just a second ago. Her phone, just a flip one at the time, had buzzed about five minutes after midnight. She hadn't had a car at the time, but her foster mom did.

The edge of the reservation was about forty minutes out, so she ended up getting there at around one in the morning. She had to go off the main road onto an unpaved side path into the woods. There weren’t supposed to be any ‘outsiders’ or whatever past the main gate, but that didn’t stop anyone from just cutting back and forth through the forest.

She was waiting right where she said she would, by the tree that looked like a man with a crooked back. Her hair was a tangled mess, all matted up with something wet. The clothes she was wearing looked like they’d been slept in, a lot, and then thrown in the mud for good measure. It was her eyes that were the worst, though-- pink like Emmald’s chipped fingernails, with more jagged cracks than a sidewalk.

With nothing but a backpack, as would become her habit, Morinthe jumped in the car. Sera wonders how much wasn’t in that tiny bag, how many tiny treasures were left and, probably, lost forever.

“Stuff’s just stuff.” Sera quietly assures her. “Who needs pegasus when you’ve got a magical lesbian unicorn?”

“Touché.” Morinthe chuckles.

“None of that Orleisian crap, yeah?” Sera scowls like she’s just smelled five week old egg. “Damn stuffy snail gobblers.”

“I actually tried the snail, not that bad. Not as good as fried crickets, though.” Morinthe jibes with a smirk.

“Damn elfy nasty bug-chewing tarts…” Sera grumbles. She sets down the cheap board with a sharp clack against the concrete, which draws her eyes to her untied shoes. She’s learned her lesson from the five stitches in her chin, so she leans over to fix that situation.

“We can take turns then, I guess.” Morinthe concludes. “You should probably go first, in that case. Maybe watching might jog my memory.”

Jog memory, is that what this is? Sprintin’s more like it. It’s weird how you can think you’ve moved on from something, left it miles behind, how quickly you can find yourself right back where you started. Sera decided it was over, that she wouldn’t let this happen to her anymore. The moment Morinthe had texted, though, Sera had jumped on the chance like a starving mutt.

They’re supposed to be friends, best friends, but they sure don’t act like it.

She steps onto the board and violently kicks off down into twisting indentation in the concrete. If she ever does skate anymore, then it’s always later. No one to be mindful of, no one to watch her work out the frustrations from the week. A coping whatever is what the doctor calls it, something to funnel the anger from in to out without hurting anybody.

Sera wouldn’t call herself good really, but she’s had plenty of practice. She sort of taught herself; fall on your face one time, use it to learn how not to wipe out the next. She’s never been very smart, but persistent will take you farther than witty sometimes.

Bug watches from the sidelines as Sera pulls off a few turns and tricks that look more impressive than they actually are. She’s not usually a show off, but then again, she doesn’t usually have an audience. She glances over her shoulder every now and then, to see if maybe she’s smiling. It feels like swallowing a mouthful of molten honey, sweet and suffocating. Sera’s not sure whether she wants to kiss her or strangle her when Morinthe grins like that.

Sera doesn’t kick off again as she comes back around the curve this time, instead allowing herself to come to a slow stop in the center. Her back is to Bug, and she looks up to the shine of the moon through the overcast clouds up ahead.

“What’s so great about this one, anyway?” She has to ask.

“I don’t know.” Morinthe mumbled. It pisses her off, makes Sera want to rip every pretty little hair out of her head in two big fistfulls. Can she even commit to anything? And that’s saying something coming from Sera of all people.

“Come on now.” Sera huffs. “Why? Is his elvhen glory-hole gold or something? This just isn’t like you.”

“Sera, please, don’t make things weird…” Morinthe quietly pleads. “Can’t we just have fun tonight?”

“Yeah… I guess.” Sera relents.

“Is it my turn then?” Morinthe nervously breaks the long silence that had fallen between them.

“I think so, yeah.” Sera replies. She kicks the board up into her hand, squeaky wheels spinning wildly, and climbs back out of the shallow ravine. She roughly shoves it into Morinthe’s trembling fingers. Fingernails are still chewed to bits, she notes.

Morinthe holds it up and turns the board around in her hands like it’s a fresh meteorite thrown down at her feet. She gently sets it on the ground and steps onto it, one careful foot at a time. Morinthe stands there perfectly balanced, just staring into the space in front of her with an unnerving focus.

With a sudden explosion of movement, she violently kicks off the ground and sends herself shooting down the curve of the smooth concrete ramp. Though she’s not in any danger of falling off, Sera knows already that Morinthe is going way too fast. She rockets up the opposite ramp and catches air, but she doesn’t know how to stick the landing. She and the board go tumbling down with a sharp clack against the unforgiving concrete.

_No helmet_ , her mind repeats. Has she hit her head? Sera isn’t sure, and of course that’s enough to send her mind whirring faster than those rusty wheels.

She practically leaps down and runs to her prone body. Morinthe is curled on her side, completely still. Like a dead nightcrawler caught in the morning light. Sera assumes she’s knocked herself out somehow, but she finds that Morinthe’s still staring dead ahead, completely unphased.

Her leggings are ripped up, and there are red tiny flowers blooming across her knees. Sera grabs her by the shoulders and sits her up beside her, which seems to sort of knock her out of the trance slightly. Morinthe blinks in confusion at the cuts on her legs, as if she’s just noticed that they were there at all.

“What the shit were you thinking?” Sera balks. “I didn’t think you had much of a mind left to lose, but Andraste’s tits…”

“I just…” She trails off. “All or nothing, I guess.”

“Maybe nothing’d be better.” Sera grunts. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah.” Morinthe deflects, maneuvering deftly out of the hands on her shoulders and coming to her feet. Who would be stupid enough to skateboard in flip flops, Sera sudden wonders. “Just some scratches, don’t worry about it.”

  
“Ok…” Sera says. She wipes the traces of gravel on her palms off on her pants as she stands up as well. “Got plenty of hydrogen-oxcide at the shop, bandages too. Fix em’ up real nice and easy for ya.”

“It’ll sting, won’t it?” Morinthe softly asks.

“Yeah, a little,” Sera admits with a shrug. “What, scared of a little pain are you?”

“No,” she intones.

That should have been obvious, now that Sera thinks about it. She mentally makes a list of just how many sharp objects there are lying around the shop. She’d forgotten just how stressful this can be, caring so much about someone who’s so rickety.

“Maybe you should get some sleep.” Sera suggests. “Snoozing on the train is always awful on the neck, after all. Bed should help.”

“Maybe,” she agrees. She’s not here anymore, Sera can tell. Lost in her own head again, as she does. Something’s definitely wrong, but there’s no point in trying to get anything out of her, not tonight.

Morinthe stumbles a little as she walks, but she again shrugs off any attempt to help her. They make it back to the shop to find that the lights are out and the front door is locked.

“Go up the fire escape is what I usually do,” Sera provides. “I could go up and let you in through the back.”

“No, I’m fine, really. I can climb.” Morinthe insists.

They end up scaling the fire escape together. It’s not too much of an effort, considering the building is only three stories high, so they make it up alright. It’s a bit cold with the wind howling the way it is, though. There’s probably going to be a storm tonight.

She props open the window and they slip inside Sera’s apartment.

“Is that always unlocked?” Morinthe suddenly asks as Sera shuts the window behind them.

“Yeah,” Sera says with a shrug. “I stay out late most nights, so I need a way in.”

“We’re in now,” Morinthe reasons. “Maybe we should lock it.”

“Okay,” Sera slowly agrees. She latches the window, and Morinthe seems to have visibly eased a bit when Sera puts eyes on her again. “What’s got you so jumpy anyhow?”

“I--” she starts, but quickly closes her mouth. “It’s just, Denerim’s a big city…”

There’s more to it, has to be, but there’s no use in pushing. There’s no making Bug do anything she really doesn’t want to at the end of the day.

“Well,” Sera sighs. “I’ll grab some band-aides and stuff from downstairs. You just sit tight, okay?”

“Alright.” Morinthe mumbles. She glances around the room a bit until she’s able to spot a chair, the one Sera dragged from a yard sale that’s probably older than both of them combined. Morinthe, all dainty and elegant-like, sits on the very edge of the distressed seat, her knees drawn up to her chest.

Sera nods before she darts out the room again. They keep the hydrogen peroxide and bandages behind the front counter, so it’s right there whenever they need it in the shop. She goes about her business crouching behind the counter and gather what she needs, so she doesn’t really take any time to look out of the front of the shop.

When she does end up glancing that way, though, she’s frozen on the spot.

Sera doesn’t believe in much in the ways of Makers or Andrastes, not really. She can’t be sure, and it makes her head hurt to try to wrap it around the idea. She does trust gut feelings, though, has had plenty of opportunities to know they’re more often right than not.

There’s a silver car parked on the opposite side of the street, one she knows wasn’t there when they’d come in. The windows are all dark, but the driver side one is half open. All she can see inside is the burning end of a lit cigarette and two callused fingers. They move back into the darkness of the cabin again as whoever it is takes another deep drag. A little grey cloud soon emerges from the open window, and in seconds it dissipates into nothing.

She can’t see him, but she knows he’s watching, whoever this guy is. Sera hopes that maybe in the dark of the shop she’s hidden too, and he doesn’t know how spooked she is.

Hap’s it’s nothing. Maybe he’s just waiting for someone there, since there’s clubs all around. Parking is a nightmare downtown, after all. Rationalizing doesn’t seem to ease this knot in her chest, though, not a bit. Sera only knows she needs to get back upstairs, and to make sure she bolts the door behind her.

Bug has good foresight, Sera thinks as she slowly creeps back to the apartment. She can’t tell her, though. Morinthe won’t sleep for days if she knows. It’s not like anything has happened yet; all the guy’s done is sit there. Just keep the doors locked tight, and it probably won’t come to anything.

Sera forces a cheerful look on her face when she gets back into the room, and Morinthe seems to more or less buy it. She rolls her leggings up so Sera can clean the cuts and scrapes with cotton swabs, and a familiar pang of protectiveness rings in her chest.

Ain’t nobody going to hurt her again, wasn’t that what she’d promised back then? It’s such a hard thing to manage, though, from so far away. Can’t keep a person locked up in a box to keep all the bad out; that’s no way to live. It’s tempting sometimes, considering all the trouble Morinthe always finds her way into.

Once she’s all fixed up, Sera climbs up onto the chair beside her. All of the springs loudly protest as she slinks her weight onto them, but she’s far beyond caring.

She wraps her arms around Morinthe’s tiny waist and rests her head on her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re back,” Sera says.

“Me too,” she answers softly.

Rain starts to patter against the windows and on the thin, somewhat leaky, ceiling. There’s the sounds of thunder in the distance, but for now, they’re still just a quiet rumble on the horizon.

“Things are all going to work out, they always do.” Sera firmly whispers. She’s not really sure who she means it for-- both of them, probably.

“Yeah,” Morinthe breathes. She sets her chin on top of Sera’s choppy head of straw. What a pair they make; clear jagged edges next to hidden ones. She used to think of them as puzzle pieces, twisted and bent up but somehow slotting together. Sera isn’t so sure, now. Maybe there’s another piece that fits just a little better, one that makes the big picture make more sense. Where does that leave her, then?

Hopefully in somewhere. Even on the very edge, she’d be happy enough. Just not shut out, not thrown away again. It isn’t fair, not after everything they’ve been, everything Sera’s done for her.

She’s here now, anyway. It probably won’t be good for either of them in the long run, but Sera will hold on as tight as she can while the moment lasts.

 


	8. Chapter 8

The world is awash in gold. The mosaic floors, walls, and even the low light of the thousands of candles that line the hallway have the same gilded glow, and while he knows it to be a favored color choice in Elvhen architecture, he surely must be remembering this room incorrectly. He certainly doesn’t think he would ever bother to light this many blasted tiny candles, after all.

Perhaps it’s a reflection of his thoughts in some way. He sees it every time he shuts his eyes-- evening sunlight on bronze skin, pools of blood shining like rubies, and the flickering glow of magic on his finger tips. The sense of helplessness, something he can stave off in waking, hits him with full force here. It’s not working, the voice hisses. You’re not strong enough. It isn’t working!

He forces the image away. If any wandering spirit were to happen upon him, there’s a chance that Solas could warp it with such thoughts.

Solas casually strolls into the circular room, lined also with more ridiculous candles. It’s one of the many areas of his estate in Arlathan that he'd never used at the time, but he remembers the function all too well.

To be perfectly frank, this was a room in which the owner of the estate or guests would enjoy the company of his or her concubines. Having none, Solas never found much use for it, but it was standard for a nobleman’s home in the day. He had been perhaps a bit more liberal when it came to sexual relationships before, but that had been when he was much younger and, admittedly, more easily impressed. By the time he’d gained enough status to own land in Arlathan, he’d far outgrown out of that particular phase in his life.

Aside from that, he’d also been determined to never claim ownership over any other person. The very idea of treating anyone as some kind of object, a means to a shallow and fleeting end, has always disgusted him to his very core.

There is a pit of sorts in the center of the room shrouded by a translucent curtain. He knows what he will find there should he dare look, and a part of him wants to escape. Taking what he feels for her, something so much more than physical, and juxtaposing it next to this… It seems so wrong.

Another side of him can’t help but wonder, though. It is base, one of the oldest emotions there is, Desire. Perhaps he is being preyed upon by one such demon, or lured into a trap of some kind. Maybe it is his arrogance, but the thought only drives Solas more. He has always sought to understand the spirits he encounters, and his curiosity overcomes common sense.

He gently pushes the curtain aside, but he finds himself grounded in place at what he finds.

Nested comfortably upon the pile of colorful cushions and wrapped in soft furs, Morinthe lies within. Solas had expected something more sensual, but the image is serene instead. She simply slumbers, completely unaware of where she is or any connotation derived thereof.

Solas knows this is no spirit, or even a memory. In his dreams, she is nearly always bare of the markings which curl over her forehead and down her exposed back. He has not considered it before, but perhaps he’s been wrong to think of them the way he has. They’re beautifully suited to her because, in truth, they aren’t the despised vallaslin of his day. She’s reclaimed them, and in doing so, rebelled against that system in a way even removing the marks couldn’t.

In theory, the same could even be said of this place; why let the weight of history have sway over them still? That time is gone, but what they have now can be whatever they choose to make of it.

Solas descends into the pit, doing his best not to disturb the soft pile that she has settled into. It is in vain, however, as she begins to shift and murmur to herself regardless. Propping his weight up on his elbows, he lies down over her. Morinthe turns toward him, eyes screwed shut and a pouty scowl on her face. Solas softly chuckles before gently brushing his lips over hers. He gives the lower one a small nip as he pulls away.

Morinthe’s eyes blearily flutter open, and her initial confusion is quickly replaced by a soft smile. She brings up her hands and cups his face, dragging her thumbs idly over his cheekbones. This causes some of the pelt to fall away and reveals that, rather than being naked as he’d assumed, she’s wearing a see-through golden shift of some kind. The gossamer fabric shimmers as she moves, and he catches himself staring at the way it draws attention to the figure underneath. It is of elvhen style, but he wonders if there is something similar in the waking world still. He’ll have to investigate.

“Well, hey there Gorgeous,” she murmurs with a groggy smile. “What brings you here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he counters. “This is rather definitively my dream after all, unless you often visit ancient Elvhenan in your sleep as well.”

“It’s, really you then?” she mumbles in confusion. Morinthe blinks a few times and shakes her head. “Fade stuff is weird.”

“Indeed,” he agrees. He smooths that always stray lock of hair behind her ear, knowing it will inevitably come loose again.

“Didn’t you say the Fade changes based on where you are?” Morinthe asks. “How can I be here if I’m really in Denerim?”

“You would be surprised how far a spirit can reach, if it truly desires to do so.” Solas says. There’s a silent question that response leaves, though neither of them have to courage to ask it. Who was grasping for whom? Perhaps it was both sides, or so he wants to think.

“Hmm,” is her only reply.

They look into one another’s eyes for the most extended period since he’s met her, in this iteration at least. It isn’t in that impassioned, blind way that youths have, but an inquisitive gaze. He feels as though he’s being dissected, like the twisted clump of half-truths and secrets that is his soul is being picked apart.

She lets her eyes drift closed again with a quiet sigh. There’s a subtle tremor of fear coming off of her all of the sudden. Solas drags his fingertips down the sides of her ribs, and as he reaches the soft tissue of her waist, he gives her a sharp pinch.

Morinthe jumps with a burst of breathy laughter, which he quickly swallows. After all of the pain he’s caused her, there’s nothing sweeter. Solas lingers on the kiss longer this time, too long. He takes in a deep breath, sucking up all of the air in her lungs until she begins to squirm in shock.

Solas pulls back, and Morinthe sputters as she coughs, “What the fuck?”

“My apologies,” he says, shaking his head. Solas rolls over to lie beside her rather than hovering.

“You are so damn weird,” she huffs. Morinthe rests her forearm over her eyes and takes a moment to breathe.

It hurts, more than she can know. He’s heard similar from many before her-- slung on the biting tongues of other children, in the condescending dismissals from adults and later his peers, and even paired with threats for his heresy. Morinthe’s supposed to be different, though. Always listening, laughing with him rather than at his expense. The small words catch him off guard in a deep, piercing way that renders him silent.

Morinthe glances over at him from beneath her arm, and she gives an amused scoff.

“Oh, don’t give me that look.” she murmurs. Morinthe turns on her side and snakes her arms around the back of his head and neck, and he willingly rests his face against her collar. She presses her lips against his temple and whispers, “I like weird, honey. Ease up a little.”

“I can be a bit intense, can’t I?” he mumbles into her skin.

“A bit,” she giggles. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, though. That, whatever it was, is just not something I’m into.”

“Alright,” he murmurs.

Morinthe hugs him into her chest more tightly, and her heart flutters erratically beneath his ear.

“Is something frightening you?” Solas asks.

“I-” she starts, but she stops again. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Why does she always have to do this? Although it is rather hypocritical for him to be aggravated with her keeping secrets, this cycle can be trying. What would it be like if they could have nothing hidden between them at all, just two people without such looming histories? Could such a thing be possible, to live free of the constant weight of the past?

A low growl rumbles deep in the back of his throat. Perhaps he doesn’t want to think of it either, or of anything for that matter. There’s a simple solution to that problem, at least.

Sex has always been a complicated subject for him personally. Despite general assumptions about young men, he’d never really had much interest in the matter until his transition into early adulthood. As far as he’d known, other people had always been cruel and baffling, and if given the choice he’d preferred to avoid them altogether.

He’d found later on just how much there was to enjoy about it, however. The physical side is a fleeting benefit, but Solas has always found the intimacy most appealing. How many opportunities does one have to be so close, to sink into someone’s skin and see her for who she truly is? It has been equally disappointing to discover just how many people do not feel the same way. A great deal of heartbreak has taught him to reserve his attentions for those who will truly reciprocate them.

He presses a kiss into her pulse point, and another on the soft skin beneath her chin, and yet again on the corner of her mouth. Her lips chase his as he pulls away, but he stops her as he cups her jaw. Solas draws his thumb across her bottom lip. The rest of her face blurs a bit at the edges, so he’s only really able to focus on one feature at a time. One of the drawbacks of the Fade, unfortunately.

Is there a holiday coming up any time soon? Certainly there must be some excuse to see each other in person again. It isn’t fair; after all this time, to have her constantly just out of his reach.

His thumb slides into her mouth, and the other hand slips down her side. He pushes the silken material of the shift up her thighs. No small clothes makes for easy access. She’s thrifty, isn’t she? There’s definitely money to be saved should she just abandon underclothes altogether.

Morinthe squirms under his touch, and her teeth sharply dig into his thumb. He wonders if those tiny incisors of hers could really draw blood. They’re sharper than a human’s, definitely, but certainly not made for rending flesh. He knows what that raw, physical power feels like, the ability to snap bones in his maw. They called him the Wolf for a reason, after all.

So, naturally, he bites her back. This startles a yelp out of her, followed by a sigh as he draws his tongue over the reddened patch of her shoulder. Thankfully for him, while Morinthe has changed a great deal since he’s seen her last, in this respect she’s basically the same. It certainly must make him appear more talented than he actually is, but in truth he’s had plenty of prior experience.

Not as much as you could have, he thinks. It seems so ridiculous in hindsight, that he resisted his feelings for so long. So much precious time wasted.

“Ar lath ma,” he growls into her ear while he thinks he can get away with it. She shivers deliciously, and this earns her a few more nips.

She’s close; he can feel it. Her muscles flutter around his fingers, and her breath comes out in ragged huffs against his shoulder.

The Fade starts to warp and tremble around them in reaction. The scene starts to melt and blend into itself, dissolving into a mesh of colors and heat. She starts to slip away, but he quickly ropes the fabric of the dream back into place. He needs to hold her here just a while longer.

It figures that, just as the stubs of her fingernails start to claw into his shoulders, and the air catches in her throat, Solas is suddenly wrenched from the dream by a violent buzzing.

Solas’ face scrunches up in distaste as he resists the urge to slap the phone off of his bedside table. Instead, he sits up, mentally going over all of the ways he’s going to maim whoever is calling him at this hour.

The hour, he soon finds, is not actually as early as he’d assumed, however. It’s noon, and he knows he’d never dare to cross the name that’s on the screen.

Solas begrudgingly swipes his thumb over the green icon, for fear of the repercussions of not doing so.

“Yes?” he grunts, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with his free hand.

“Is that the reception I get, after all of this time?” Flemeth tuts. “I would have thought you’d be glad to hear from me. Naive, I know.”

“I-,” he mumbles. “Apologies, I just…”

“You were sleeping, weren’t you?” She probes. “This late? I thought you had a job these days.”

“It’s Sunday,” he flatly replies. It is Sunday, isn’t it? Yes, certainly.

“So you’re free then.” Flemeth asserts. “I will see you at the statue, then. You have an hour.”

“So I do not have a choice then, as usual?” he mutters, throwing the blankets aside.

“You had a choice the last three times we invited you to dinner.” Flemeth cooly snaps back. “You do realize we had promised a number of rather important people that you would be at that charity event in Val Royeaux?”

“Perhaps I tire of Andruil begging me for money every time she opens her mouth,” Solas sighs. He has nothing formal enough for her standards in his closet, but she will have to survive. Solas isn’t going to dress up for a trip to the park.

“How do you think we feel?” Flemeth drawls. “The child needs to learn to fend for herself, without her parents’ help.”

“Or any from slaves, yes?” Solas sneers.

“I thought we had all agreed to try to move on.” Flemeth reminds him. “It was your decision, after all.”

“I know,” he says, trying and failing to shrug into his shirt without putting the phone down. He manages to balance it between his face and shoulder. “But she is not an innocent child.”

“You speak as though your sins were any lesser than hers.” she murmurs.

Solas very nearly goes on a heated tirade of the many ways Andruil’s wrongs outweigh his own, but he manages to restrain himself. That is an argument he cannot win.

“Like I said,” Flemeth continues. “One o’clock, Solas. Until then.”

“Goodbye,” he clips. She hangs up before he can.

Solas gazes longingly at the wrinkled impression still left in the sheets. He could just dive back in, if he truly wanted to. What could she do, really? Other than get him fired from his job, evicted from his flat, or even exposed to the entire world as an ancient monster of legend?

He tugs his coat off of the back of the door with a defeated hiss through his teeth. At least it’s just her, hopefully. He can stand Flemeth; it’s just having to deal with the rest of them that makes his skin crawl. Solas did decide to give them all a second chance, one more than any of them deserve. This doesn’t change the fact that he can’t stand them as people.

It may be nice to speak with her, though. It has been a while, and perhaps he had been a bit too short with Flemeth just now.

He doesn’t bother with getting the car. The park is a short walk away, and he always prefers to go on foot if he can.

As he often does, Solas finds himself trying to piece together where he walks in relation to where the original Haven once stood. Most of the city today would have been nothing but snow and mountains in that day, but not all.

Where the Temple of Sacred Ashes once stood, there is now a public park. Within it stands a memorial garden, a circular bed of usually frozen flowers with a statue at its center.

He’s studied the artwork many times, as this is a favorite meeting spot of hers. Solas finds it distasteful more for what it does not depict rather than what it shows.

As he finds himself before it once again, Solas grimaces at the sight of the statue.

With the telling eye above the nose guard of her helmet raised high, the proud Herald of Andraste stands above the bodies of a gnarled magister and the snarling form of a monstrous wolf. Beneath the figures is a plaque, listing the names of lives lost to the would be gods.

Among all of the names listed are only the pious followers of Andraste deemed worthy of memory by the Chantry. They are mostly nobles, many who were known for their generous donations to the faith. There is no mention of the soldiers, the spies, the mages, of the Blades of Hessarian, the Red Jennies, or Bull’s Chargers.

What makes his blood boil most each time he sees it, however, is the sight of those short, curved ears on the victorious Inquisitor’s head. These ungrateful humans go out of their way to honor their preferred past while erasing the people who died for this peace they take for granted.

It seems that even she had been unable to completely destroy such injustice in this world. Perhaps no one can, if she couldn’t.

Flemeth is waiting on a bench, engrossed in whatever is on her phone. Probably inciting a coup somewhere. Solas had long outlived the days when he was willing to participate in such machinations.

As far as any other would be concerned, she appears to be an average young woman. Perhaps a bit more poshly dressed than most girls in their twenties would be, but none would suspect the dark haired youth of being both an infamous witch and an ancient goddess, or even one of the two.

When Solas had released their souls from himself, Mythal and Flemeth had been given the opportunity to go their separate ways. After having three spirits living within him for even that short amount of time, Solas could not have been more eager to become independent again himself, but apparently they had felt differently. Having been together for so long, perhaps neither Flemeth or Mythal could see themselves going on without one another.

After the death of her previous daughter, it had taken Flemeth some time to find a suitable host. She’d had to settle for a distant cousin of Morrigan’s, as the girl herself would never allow herself to be overtaken, understandably so. Mythal could have forced the foolish child to submit, as Morrigan had drunk from the Well, but she thankfully refrained. Solas has always found Flemeth’s ritual distasteful, but at least she never takes unwilling victims. Idiotic ones, perhaps, but not unwilling. 

She finally looks up at him, although Flemeth certainly has known he’s been there for a while.

“Ten minutes late,” she flatly jibes, shaking her head. “And you barely live a block away. Is your head ever not floating through the clouds?”

“I thought we had all agreed it was better off that way,” he shoots back. Solas sits down on the other side of the bench, keeping his gaze turned away from her amber stare.

“Perhaps,” she chuckles. “Don’t need you running around starting any more rebellions, do we pup?”

“How is the family faring, anyway?” Solas sighs, if only for a need to change the topic.

“Elgar’nan is still wrapped up in the lawsuit with those Antivan farmers. He’ll probably get out of it with a slap on the wrist at best, but the sheer amount of trouble these men have been putting him through might keep his nose a little cleaner from now on.” Flemeth says.

“He should be sent to prison.” Solas intones.

“But he won’t be, so there’s no point in wishing.” She replies. “At least he hasn’t murdered anyone yet, as far as I know.”

“Or tried to destroy the world,” Solas admits.

“He’s just your average corrupt business giant these days, not a threat to all life itself.” Flemeth agrees. “It’s a marginal improvement, at least.”

“Has Ghilan'nain been doing well with school?” He diverts again.

“Ah yes, she is still determined to be an artist,” Flemeth sighs. “Although what kind tends to change with the hour. I think she’s studying to be an architect last I checked.”

“You have no problem funding whatever she chooses to do,” Solas notes.

“Andruil spent every penny on parties, shoes, and handbags that she constantly loses.” Flemeth says. “At least Ghilan'nain is motivated to do… something, with her life, whatever that may eventually be.”

He finds himself staring off into nothing in particular. It’s a tendency of his on days like this, nothing but a blanket of overcast above and bitter chill below. When he is awake this place is one of the most miserable he’s ever known, save perhaps the Fallow Mire.

“Why did you want me here, really?” Solas eventually says.

“Would you believe I only wished to speak with one of my oldest friends?” Flemeth jibes.

“No.”

“Of course not,” she chuckles. “You used to. I remember you were even eager to see me once.”

“That was before I endured the pleasure of sharing a head with you.” Solas mutters.

“Alright.” Flemeth sighs, finally deeming it necessary to tuck her cellphone away into her purse. “I was just wondering about something.”

There’s a tone to her voice that instantly sets him on edge. His mind instantly jumps to where it normally does these days. Could Flemeth know that Morinthe has returned? His heart is too fragile right now, unbalanced. He cannot involve her in any of their schemes or dramatics. They have enough troubles of their own for the moment.

“I need to call upon one of the many favors you owe me,” Flemeth reveals. She retrieves a sealed manila envelope from within her rather ridiculously large leather purse. 

Delicately, as if it may combust at any sudden movement, he takes it from her manicured fingers. Not this again.

“Hire a hitman, if that’s what you want. Surely you can afford it.” Solas hastily says.

“Don’t jump to conclusions, now.” Flemeth gently scolds. “There need not be any blood shed this time.”

He opens the folder. There’s a few documents, but he’s drawn more to the pictures. A few are of people, some are even researchers he’s heard of before. Three of the photographs are of the same object, just taken from different angles. It’s an octangular figure, dwarven in make. 

“This dates back to the war against the Titans,” Solas notes in subtle amazement. “Where did they find this?”

“You were heading there yourself, if my sources are to be believed.” Flemeth says. “A dig site in Antiva. Those simpletons think it’s a piece of artwork of some kind. Surely you know better, though.”

“It appears to be a mockery of a foci,” Solas infers. “Perhaps some kind of weapon forged to fight back against…”

“Us, yes,” Flemeth agrees. “With limited success, obviously. It either did not work, or it was not completed in time to be of any use. Regardless, I need it. Can you do this for me?”

“Why not have one of your contacts fetch it for you?” Solas asks, unable to help the suspicion rising within him. “I doubt it’s heavily guarded.”

“Can I trust some meat-headed lackey not to damage it?” Flemeth scoffs. “You understand the value of such artifacts, and you have the skills to collect it without threatening its integrity.”

“What is this thing, really?” Solas murmurs, eyes narrowing at the carved inscriptions in the black stone. The photo is too fuzzy to make them out, and he cannot deny his interest in seeing the artifact personally. “Why is it so important to you?”

“I am not altogether certain just yet,” Flemeth admits. “But I don’t like loose ends. I will not allow something that potentially powerful fall into the wrong hands. It may just be an ancient piece of useless rock, but, either way, I will know for myself.”

“I will… see what I can do,” Solas relents, shuffling the materials back into the folder.

“Excellent!” She says, giving him a firm pat on the knee as she stands. “And all without even having to blackmail you.”

“What do you--” Solas starts, looking wildly at her.

Flemeth smirks, golden eyes narrowing to glowing slits. “What don’t I know, my dear?”

With that, she turns on her stiletto heel and marches away, leaving Solas to slowly collect his thoughts alone.

She didn’t refer to Morinthe by name. She could have been talking about anything, for all he knows. There’s still this sinking feeling of dread in his gut, and it seems almost impossible now that he thinks about it for her to not have found out. If she knows about some fleeting conversation he’d had with Varric months ago, then certainly she’s more than informed about Morinthe being alive again. Perhaps she’s known longer than he has.

At times like these, being someone she calls a ‘friend’, Solas truly pities the those Flemeth considers enemies. As a youth, he’d liked to have thought that Mythal was more merciful, but perhaps he simply hadn’t had the opportunity to be on the receiving end of her exacting wrath. Everyone is simply a pawn on a much larger playing field to her. Useful, but disposable if need be.

Solas is hardly innocent of such behavior himself, so he isn’t in any place to judge her methods. He just grows so tired of games these days. Frankly, he’s too old for this shit, as Varric would probably say. Every time he seems close to getting away from all of this, something ropes him back in.

Just one more favor, he thinks as he stands up. He had been planning on going to the dig-site anyway; it will barely be any trouble at all. At least she isn’t asking him to kill anyone this time.

There’s more to this whole thing, though, he knows it. Nothing can ever be simple with them, after all. He can’t help seeing Morinthe in his mind, whatever it is that Flemeth might do to her should he fail to deliver. Solas doesn’t doubt the witch would hit him where it hurt most if he should turn on her.

Better whoever Flemeth plans on using this thing against than his heart, he decides. Naive of him, admittedly, to think he could try to have any kind of relationship with her without putting Morinthe in harm’s way.

But he just can’t help himself, can he? To be fair, she would never have been safe, whether he pursued her this time or not. He doomed them both centuries ago.

He has three weeks still before his trip to Antiva, and it’s been two since he saw Morinthe last. Only fourteen days-- why does it feel so much longer than the years he’s spent alone? Maybe it’s because he knows she’s out there somewhere, breathing and laughing where he can’t hear.

Hopefully she’s happy, whatever it is she’s doing right now. Please let her be safe, at least. Solas knows that Sera is probably the only other person who could possibly love her as much as he does, and, despite their differences, he trusts her to look after Morinthe. Perhaps she will not need to be protected by anyone soon enough, in all good luck.

No, luck won’t have anything to do with it. Morinthe can make it through this phase, wherever it may leave her at the end of it all. Solas would like to say he’ll be perfectly content whether she chooses to stay with him or not, but he’s far too selfish to be satisfied with her being healthy and stable.

What is the modern equivalent? A house in the suburbs, dog, and a white picket fence? He’s allergic to dog hair, cats’ as well, and he could live without neighbors. Maybe a home out in country somewhere, nothing but miles of wilderness all around. There'd be an herb and vegetable garden out back, and a goldfish. 

That isn’t the point she’s at in her life now, though. What she needs is more important than his idle fantasies.

None of that will ever be possible if Flemeth targets her. He’ll do whatever he must to stop that from happen, regardless of whoever else might get caught in the crossfire.

Solas tucks the manila folder into his jacket. He still has time to think things through, do some research. Perhaps he can figure out what exactly it is that Flemeth has in mind.

He leaves the garden, eyes turned downward and the shadow of the monument lying across his back.


	9. Chapter 9

Morinthe had managed for about three days before losing her mind with boredom.

She’s stuck in a bureaucratic time loop at the moment. Apparently she’s supposed to be waiting on a phone call in order to get an appointment for a consultation about possibly getting her working visa within the next six months. Six months! She hadn’t exactly been expecting the process to be quick, but what exactly is she supposed to do with herself in all that time?

Sera is always either down in the shop or working over at that game store. Morinthe isn’t narcissistic enough to try to interrupt her friend’s daily life any more than she already has for boredom’s sake.

They talk when they can; usually just short conversations before bed about their days. Morinthe’s story is generally the same-- No, they hadn’t called her back yet, and yes, she had been just lying around for the most part.

Morinthe’s tired of waiting, though. The Blighters can leave a voicemail; she’s going to do something with herself. She’s been scrolling through Craigslist ads on her phone. It's stereotypical murderer rapist bait, yes, but she’s desperate.

Most people aren’t that creepy, although she does come across the occasional interesting topic, which she always makes sure to take a screen capture of to send to Sera. One of note lists that the person is looking for someone who looks like his deceased mother to take care of and also screw him on the side. Morinthe considers sending it to Solas, but he might freak out. Worry-wart.

They’ve been texting on and off, mostly about nothing. She keeps him in the dark about a lot of things that are going on, but that’s not really something unique to their relationship. It gets hard keeping track of what she wants which person to see; not lying necessarily, just tip-toeing around certain topics.

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and it’s not as if he’s an open book either.

She’d ended up looking into a job cleaning up for this old lady a few blocks away. The woman doesn’t seem senile to Morinthe. She does have the capability to make an ad online after all, but apparently her back just isn’t what it used to be. There’s a hundred bucks with Morinthe’s name on it if she can clear out all the dust and dander. Decent enough money for a relatively simple task, and it’s a productive use of her day for a change.

It’s a little far walking, but she doesn’t mind the trek. She has no problem with the exercise, just as long as it’s during the day. Morinthe makes sure to let Sera and Mira down in the shop know where she’s going before she sets out. At least this way she can be sure someone will call the cops if this does turn out to be some assholes trying to get a hold of her kidney. She’s got her knife in her bag too, just in case.

The building is a tall and skinny little thing, three stories stacked between two much taller office buildings. It looks so positively antique next to the shiny glass and metal on either side, like the rest of world had advanced all around and left this tiny relic untouched.

Morinthe slowly walks up the short flight of stairs that leads to the cherry red door. There is actually a doorbell, but it’s rather dusty and has a few lingering cobwebs around it. The thing does actually ring, surprisingly enough. It takes a minute or two before she hears anything happening on the other side, but there is eventually the jingling of a chain followed by the turn of the knob.

The door only opens by a crack at first, but once the peering gaze decides that she isn’t an immediate threat, it’s pushed the rest of the way. 

The old woman’s spine is nearly doubled over from age, but she stands taller than Morinthe does still. She must have been at least six feet in her youth, and Morinthe can only imagine she was force of nature. Her eyes are angular and narrowed, sharp despite the soft folds of wrinkles all around them.

“Morinthe?” She sternly questions. She was probably a school teacher at some point or another; Morinthe can just imagine her, arms crossed, stereotypical ruler in hand.

Morinthe nods, and in turn she asks, “Ms. Pentaghast?”

“Yes,” she answers. Slowly, she turns and allows the elf entry. “And you may call me Lucia, thank you.”

Lucia’s a stiff talker, but she doesn’t seem to have any trouble walking, as far as Morinthe can see. The old woman leads her down the narrow entryway past an even thinner flight of stairs and into a small kitchen.

There are no pictures, but the wallpaper is covered in lighter patches where there had clearly been some kind of frame once before. Though the counters, stove, and sink are clean, Morinthe could see at a glance that there were nooks and crannies beneath the oven and in the corners of the room where dust had gathered.

Lucia carefully sits down at the round table in the center of the small room, where a book and a cup of coffee wait for her. 

“The broom and whatever else you’ll need is in that closet there,” Lucia says, gesturing with her pinkie to a door by the refrigerator as she takes a sip of coffee. “Just take care of dust and cobwebs, scrub the toilets, and before you get it in your head to steal anything, I assure you, there’s nothing here worth the effort.”

With that, the old woman’s attention is absorbed entirely by her novel. Morinthe resists the urge to snort when she catches a glimpse of the shirtless man on the cover, but she doesn’t judge.

Just as Lucia said, Morinthe finds the broom, paper towels, and cleaning fluid in the closet. Morinthe isn’t a housekeeper by the widest stretch of the imagination, but she’ll give it her best shot.

She decides to go room by room. Morinthe starts with a damp paper towel, and she gets down beneath the oven and in the aforementioned dusty areas. Once she gets about her work, the time starts to fly. She manages to clear out the lower floor with ease; the place hadn’t really been dirty at all in the first place, just a bit stuffy. The bathroom isn’t even that terrible. Lucia doesn’t seem like the type of woman to let her house become a complete wreck anyway.

Morinthe hesitates before going upstairs, however. It’s completely dark up that narrow staircase, and eerily quiet. It’s probably nothing; if anyone had been planning to jump her, it would have happened by now.

As quietly as she can manage, she slips up the creaking steps. They look like they could use a good sweep themselves, so she makes a note to get to that some time later. 

There’s even more shadows of missing pictures along the walls up here too. The entire place feels as though the owner had just moved out, and no occupants had come to claim it since.

The lights do work, thankfully, and with a bit of illumination the upstairs is a bit less intimidating. She finds another slightly bigger bathroom, a closet, and two bedrooms. 

She steps into the smaller of the bedrooms to find that, aside from a building layer of dust, it is more or less clean. It’s probably a guestroom, judging by the empty closet and general lack of personal effects. Morinthe makes a quick job of dusting down the dresser, floor, and side table. The sheets need to be cleaned, but she figures that can be left for later.

The other bathroom is basically the same as the last, although she has to be mindful of the medication in the cabinets. She purposefully saves the master bedroom for last. Something just feels wrong about going through a stranger’s space like that, but Lucia hadn’t really specified what she did and didn’t want Morinthe to clean.

Lucia’s room is really the only one in the house that looks like it’s been lived in at all. There aren’t any clothes in the floor, but the laundry basket against the wall is full.Her vanity has seemingly hundreds of brightly colored necklaces, bracelets, clip-on earrings, and even a few plastic crowns.

“She doesn’t strike me as the type,” Morinthe thinks aloud, puzzling at a bright purple string of beads. Perhaps she has grandchildren.

Morinthe decides to leave that be rather than make a greater mess of the pile. The bed is already made, and there’s nothing in the floor save for some more dust and dirt. She goes about sweeping this room out as well, but she hits something when she slides the broom underneath the bed.

Morinthe frowns softly. She could just forget about it and move on, take the money and run so to speak. It’s probably just where she’s storing her winter clothes or something. If that’s the case, then it shouldn’t be any problem if she were to…

Looking over her shoulder to the still open door, Morinthe crouches down on her knees to get a better look at the black mass underneath the box spring. She reaches in and pulls out a picture frame, one of what looks like a hundred shoved down there.

The picture itself is worn out, almost too old to discern the subject. It looks like a little boy in posh dress clothes scowling dejectedly. Morinthe tells herself when she puts it back that she won’t look at any more of them, her question having been answered. Of course, telling herself and following through are two different matters entirely.

The next one she grabs is larger and square-- it’s a painting of a field in the Free Marches. She could recognize that flat landscape anywhere. There’s a few newer, round portraits of babies with Lucia’s eyes and tufts of dark hair, and she finds a photograph in a backyard of one of them being held by a beautiful young woman. Morinthe traces the soft lines of her smile with a tentative finger; there’s something sad about her eyes. More of a feeling, really, some sense of loss that radiates from the image.

The last one that she examines is what really sets her mind reeling. This one is in black and white, and it’s probably the oldest she’s seen so far. It’s on the porch of what looks like the same house from the previous picture, and there’s two humans and three Dalish elves sitting down for tea. The older human looks like Lucia, but she has a sharper cut to her jaw and cheekbones. Standing stiffly next to presumably her mother is a very young girl with those same piercing eyes.

What truly draws her attention are the elves. Two twin boys, both about in their late teens, sit on either side of their older sister. Although she is infinitely younger than Morinthe could ever have imagined, she knows that long nose and strict brow almost as well as her own face.

“Keeper Deshanna,” Morinthe whispers.

It seems impossible in hindsight that anyone from clan Lavellan would be caught dead conversing with a human, but that was a different time. Even so, Morinthe could never remember human relations being so friendly, even before they decided to isolate themselves from the rest of the world.

She shouldn’t ask. That would clearly give away the fact that Morinthe had completely disrespected Lucia’s privacy, but, at the same time.

She has to know.

With her job done, Morinthe quickly puts the pictures back where she’d found them and heads downstairs.

Lucia hasn’t moved from her spot, still reading that same trashy novel. The only difference she can find is that her cup is slightly less full that it had been an hour ago.

“I think I’ve finished,” Morinthe says softly, resisting the urge to wring her hands together.

“”You think?’” Lucia mimics. Her tone is serious, but the corners of her eyes smile.

The old woman takes a envelope out from beneath the back cover of her novel and hands it to Morinthe without another word. Morinthe affirms that the promised one hundred in cash is inside, and that would be the point at which a reasonable person would bid the nice lady a good day and take her leave.

Morinthe couldn’t be anywhere farther from the word ‘reasonable’; her entire life is evidence enough of that.

“Um, Serah…” Morinthe fumbles, trying and failing to find some subtle way of putting this.

“Lucia,” she stiffly corrects once again.

“Lucia,” Morinthe repeats, “Do you know anything, anything about Clan Lavellan?” 

She grunts in a mixture of what sounds like vague amusement and melancholy, and then Lucia asks herself. “How did know? What a small world.”

The Nevarran takes a final swig of her coffee before she continues. “You saw those pictures, I take it? Don’t look so pale, dear, it does not suit you. I’m planning on having the wallpaper torn down, and I did not have anywhere else to store them.”

“You don’t sound like a Marcher, if you don’t mind me saying, and Clan Lavellan isn’t known for having the best relations with humans.” Morinthe prods.

“Not lately, no,” Lucia agrees. “And I do come from Nevarra. The Pentaghasts and Lavellan go back some time, centuries in fact. It was shocking, frankly, when your people cut ties with us so suddenly.”

“I don’t really remember anything about your family,” Morinthe says. “And I wasn’t that young when we… changed.”

“We did not really get that involved with the clan itself, but we’ve had close ties to your Keepers for generations. We’ve done quite a lot for Clan Lavellan, whether you realize it or not. You’ve seen our contributions.” 

“Contributions?” Morinthe echos.

“The library was a gift from my grandmother, and we’ve periodically donated new textbooks and encyclopedias to keep the place as updated as we could. We used to have a scholarship available for clan members as well, back when you were actually encouraged to seek higher education. Aside from that, we’ve always been willing to give any financial aid your Keepers asked of us, and even put some… pressure, on local governments once or twice.” Lucia explains.

“But, why?” Morinthe asks after a moment of shocked silence.

Lucia sighs. She shuts her book and gently meets Morinthe’s eyes. “We do not exactly remember the details. It has been so long, after all. My mother once told me an ancestor of ours felt she owed your people an unpayable debt, for reasons we may never know.”

Morinthe has about twenty-five more questions she’d like to ask, and that’s only as of this moment. Unfortunately, she does have to meet with Sera soon. She doesn’t even want to think about the nervous wreck that girl will be if Morinthe doesn’t show.

“Could we talk again sometime?” Morinthe requests. She tries her best not to wring her hands together as she speaks, but that’s an uphill battle.

“I would like that,” Lucia says with a firm nod. “I did give you my phone number, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Morinthe confirms. 

“Call me then, we’ll find a day,” Lucia says, waving her off with a hand.

“Okay,” Morinthe nods. When Lucia doesn’t say anything more, she takes this as her cue to leave.

Morinthe feels an overwhelming urge to run out the door, but she manages to walk.

It’s weird, really. She always tells herself that she’s over this elf-y stuff, but she can’t seem to stop her mind. That time she saw in the photograph is long gone, both literally and metaphorically.

This is almost comically strange, though. What are the chances she of all people would happen to answer Lucia’s ad? It’s too much of a coincidence. Stuff like this could almost convince her to believe in some sort of sadistic puppet master running all of creation.

Her mind is so wrapped up in it all that she nearly doesn’t notice the buzz in her pocket. Morinthe’s heart leaps up into her throat, and an overwhelming sense of inevitable dread settles in. It’s become a familiar feeling as of late.

Maybe it’s just Sera. It is a couple minutes after three, after all. The unknown number on her screen would say otherwise.

She’s been getting texts twice a day on average, but there are sometimes more. A lot of the time they don’t actually say anything, sometimes a few dots or maybe one word. Other times they’re seemingly addresses. She’d looked a few of them up before. Some were in Antiva, others from Tevinter, but a few were more troubling. One of them had been for the grocery store she and Solas had gone to in Haven.

Morinthe has tried blocking the numbers, but a new one always manages to pop up. Whoever it is probably has a collection of disposable phones lying around, or, more alarmingly, is working in a group. Why anyone would take time out of their day to badger a random girl with complete nonsense is beyond her. It’s getting to a point that she should probably just change her number altogether.

Unlike usual, there doesn’t seem to be any text this time. Her screen just shows that there’s a photo attached.

Morinthe debates whether or not she should actually look at it. She’s just letting them win if she gives this ridiculous crap any thought. At the same time, though, Morinthe knows there’s no way to stop herself.

The picture’s hard to make out at first. Whoever took it didn’t seem to have much concern for the quality of his photography. It looks like a playground, and thankfully it seems to be empty. One of the swings on the set has a broken chain, so the rubber seat hangs limply just off the ground. The dented metal slide is more rust than anything else at this point. In short, the whole place looks like a tetanus shot waiting to happen.

Yet again, it appears that she’s been sent more vague pointlessness. Something about is a bit unnerving about the picture, though. Whatever this is, it’s clearly escalating.  
She quickly shoves the phone back into her pocket, but not before she sets it on silent.

Sera had wanted to check out a new thrift store a couple blocks away from the tattoo shop. Morinthe is always up for cheap stuff, so she’s been looking forward to it. If she weren’t quite so stingy she might have called a cab, but she settles for walking instead. It isn’t that far, after all.

About halfway between Lucia’s house and the store, Morinthe passes an old chain link fence. She hadn’t really paid much mind to the dirt clearing on the other side at first, as there are plenty of empty lots scattered about this area. Something in her gut causes her to look over this time.

For about thirty seconds, Morinthe forgets how to breathe. The slide is there. Dangling and casting a long, dark shadow across the dry earth, is the broken swing beside it. What makes her blood run cold is the way that it drifts gently back and forth, as if someone had just brushed passed it.

Beyond the clearing is a rare sight, a thick patch of trees. She feels a thousand eyes peering at her from underneath the brush, even though she doesn’t see anything there.

A smart person would tell someone, because this is reasonably horrifying. The more protective, less reasonable voice in her head wins over, though. Her friends have enough to worry about anyway. It’s not like anything has physically happened to her.

Yet, her mind frantically finishes.

It just doesn’t make any sense. Morinthe is an absolute nobody. No real career, no home, no family, nothing worth taking at all. Why would anybody go through this trouble just to scare the shit out of her, of all people?

She wants to run and meet up with Sera, but there’s still the possibility that she might be followed. Maybe she can take a more round-about way to get to the store. Even if she’s a little late, Sera probably won’t question her too much. Morinthe will make up some kind of excuse.

She doesn’t run, doesn’t draw any more attention to herself than she already has. Morinthe is used to being invisible, just one more youth out of thousands living on the edge. This sort of thing only happens to girls in movies, the daughters and wives of international spies and other such ridiculous crap.

Morinthe pointedly doesn’t look behind her as she turns the corner. She tries to imagine that the sidewalk evaporates behind her, crumbling away into oblivion.

Maybe if she ignores it a bit longer, it’ll go away. They might get bored if they don’t get a reaction.

Or perhaps they won’t.


	10. Chapter 10

Despite popular belief, Sera has been ‘pretty’ before. Well, if you could call being covered in six inches of makeup, fake nails, and tule attractive. She was a proper lady and everything, though, put her feet in the right places and smiled with that fuckin’ flipper thing in her mouth.

Embalmer always said she’d wanted a little girl, ever since she was young. Her dusty snatch got all dried up before that ever happened, and so she picked herself up a charity case from the local gutter.

The hairstylist always put these giant extensions and hairpieces in, made sure to curl it until her head was one giant rat’s nest. Sera remembers looking in the mirror, Emmbald’s chipped nails digging into her shoulders and a yellow smile hanging over her head.

You couldn’t even tell her ears were any longer than the others, not with that hair in the way.

“You’re beautiful,” she’d fawned.

Though she’d probably never admit it, Sera had felt good about that. Excited, almost. Sure, it had taken a lot of work, but she had finally felt like she was worth half a shit. That had been until crowning at the end of the pageant of course. She’d only won a mini-supreme or something. Point being, it wasn’t the big grand what’s a ma-call it, and the bitch wasn’t having it.

“Wasn’t even worth the price of admission,” she’d spat all the way home. “Drove twelve hours for nothing!”

There’s no mirror in the thrift store, just racks and racks of dusty old things that smell like unwashed grandfathers. Sera shrugs into possibly the ugliest thing she’s ever laid eyes on: stitched together jacket with pads in the shoulders, all checkers and plaids and greens and yellows.

The aghast look on bug’s face as Sera gives a dramatic twirl is worth a hundred shitty sequined crowns.

“You’re not actually going to buy that thing, are you?” Morinthe scoffs, a hand covering her mouth.

“I dunno, I think it suits me,” Sera snickers. She rifles through the outside pockets and comes up empty, but she does find a fiver in one hidden inside.

“You’re sure this isn’t stealing, right?” Morinthe nervously whispers.

“Stealing from who? Bloke sold his ugly coat, not the contents of his pockets,” Sera hisses back. “It’s either this, or we don’t have clean laundry for another week Princess Priss.”

“I could’ve paid for--” she insists.

“I don’t remember you being allergic to fun,” Sera tuts irritably. She throws the ugly collage of fabric back on the hanger. “That’s what hanging around bookworms does. They crawl into your brain and get stuck there.”

“No kidding,” Morinthe mutters, brushing past her.

Sera rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t bother saying anything else.

They make about forty dollars in all, down to the last dime. Plenty enough to wash every sock and towel up in her apartment, once they get it into quarters. Morinthe buys a pleated skirt and a sweatshirt-- she says it’s to cover their asses, but it’s probably more guilt.

It’s weird, all things considered. Sera learned almost everything she knows about shoplifting from Morinthe, after all. It had just been a game, taking worthless shit like candy to see if they could get away with it. Admittedly, Sera had ended up taking things farther than little bug ever would’ve dared.

Morinthe had stayed home the night they stole the car. Sera had been defending or honor, or that’s how she’d justified it anyway. Damn Pete Rogers or some shit had spread around that Mo had blown the entire basketball team, and the Jennies weren’t going to let that fly.

Car wasn’t damaged, and that had probably been the only reason she’d avoided Juvie that time.

“Hit a couple of these places a night, and you could almost call it a living,” Morinthe comments once the jingling door swings shut behind them.

“Nah, they’d catch on, and they don’t get new stock in that often,” Sera says with a wave of her hand.

Morinthe doesn’t snap back or sigh at her, so Sera gives her a concerned look.

She’s looking at her damn phone again. Morinthe’s never been the type to be sucked up in machines all day, which is usually pretty annoying. Takes her a week to even see a text sometimes. It’d be a good sign to see her acting normal for once, if she’d stop being so damn weird about it.

“Come on,” Sera whines, not so subtly tugging at Morinthe’s arm. She locks her screen, of course, before Sera can get a look at what’s so interesting. 

“Are we going home?” She asks, like a kid who’s found out they’re going to get vaccinated.

“Any reason we wouldn’t be?” Sera huffs back at her.

“I dunno,” Morinthe looks down at her hands, and her teeth dig into her lip while she talks.

“Don’t lie to me,” Sera interrupts her as she starts to speak again. “You suck at it, always have.”

“I-,” she stammers, “Sorry. It should be fine. I’m just being stupid again.”

It’s the truth, or at least she thinks it is anyway. Sera’s first instinct is to, of course, grill her until the whole story is out in the open, but she can tell that Morinthe still hasn’t really decided whether she wants to stay or not yet.

She’s wearing that damn sweater again, the one Sera has tried to throw out twice now. Morinthe had caught her both times, but she hadn’t wanted to argue about it. Andraste forbid. That’s how she deals with anything unpleasant, by not dealing with it.

_ Do you want her to decide you’re not worth being around again _ , her tiny conscience whispers. 

Sera hisses through her teeth and turns on her heel. “Fine then. You ought to be able to wear something that fits you once we get everything washed; let’s go grab our clothes and head to the laundromat.”

“Okay,” she answers, almost relieved, but not quite.

* * *

Morinthe had never known that passive-aggressive laundry loading had been a thing, until now. Sera hasn’t looked at her once in the past hour, not without rolling her eyes or sighing. This is a subtle cold shoulder in Sera terms, though, so Morinthe isn’t exactly complaining.

It’s nine o’clock at night, just the time for all of the weirdos to turn up. Morinthe’s not particularly bothered; she’s a strange one herself, isn’t she? There’s a dwarven woman with a tattoo of a stag beetle on her arm waiting on the dryer to the right, and a Qunari built like a tank is daintily reading a gardening magazine to her left.

She tosses a softener sheet into the dryer before shutting the door and loading in a few more quarters. Sera has a lot of clothes, surprisingly enough. Most of it consists of ugly holiday sweaters and other novelties, things she’d probably bought as jokes and ended up keeping.

Morinthe’s phone goes off in her back pocket again. She’s not gotten any more pictures, thankfully, but the random map coordinates are coming in at a much higher frequency. She’ll just have to change her phone number-- there’s no way around it at this point. That is if she doesn’t end up just tossing the damn thing in a river first.

Although she’s still adamant in her plan of not responding, she can’t help the urge to keep checking the messages. If the asshole is standing right outside, she’d like to know at least.

Morinthe slips the phone out of her pocket and cautiously glances to either side of her. As expected, they don’t seem to be paying any attention to her at all.

It turns out the new text isn’t from an unknown number after all. She finds her face, once again, curling into a secretive smile against her own will. He’s so hard to put her thumb on: when he’s around he’s so clingy it’s suffocating, but she sort of misses him when he’s gone.

He’s sent her a short clip from the inside of what looks like a library. There’s people around her age lounging in chairs with laptops on their knees and coffee cups in hand.

She leaves the sound off, but she plays the video. It’s one girl in particular he seems to be secretly recording. She’s holding her phone in her hand and seems to be filming herself talking. Morinthe loses count of the number of times she sassily bobs her head, but the most aggravating part is strange, claw-like way she holds her free hand in the air beside her head. Morinthe doesn’t even need to turn the sound on to know she’s being much too loud for a library setting.   


_ Don’t _ , is her only reply back.

_ Do not what? _ He quickly sends.

_ She’s just an idiot. She’s not worth the trouble. _

_ Few people are,  _ he responds, and Morinthe can practically hear the dryness in his tone.

_ Can I call you later? Now’s not the best time.  _

_ Certainly. I look forward to it,  _ he answers. Of course he does, the damn sap. It has been a while, though.

Morinthe spares a look at the still glowering Sera. She should probably wait until Sera is good and knocked out before she makes that phone call. She’s always had a jealous streak, even when they were kids-- Morinthe couldn’t even share her animal crackers without it being a problem.

Apparently it’s just too much to ask for all of her friends to get along, or not to be stalked.

Having finished angrily shoving their third load into a washer, Sera plops herself down in an ancient plastic chair in the corner. She trains her eyes on the T.V. playing Wheel of Fortune by the ceiling with a focus Mornthe has hardly ever seen from the girl.

Her anger isn’t entirely unwarranted. Morinthe has a hard enough time hiding things from people who haven’t known her most of her life, so she really had no chance of Sera not catching on that something’s amiss. Still, Morinthe can’t help thinking that knowing would only make her angrier.

This whole thing is Morinthe’s own fault, after all. She should’ve kept better track of who she gave her number out to, should’ve been more careful in general. None of this would’ve ever happened if she’d just taken five seconds to think properly, for once in her life. She got herself into this mess, and she’ll get herself out. No need to bother anyone else with it.

Morinthe drags herself over to another beaten chair by the front of the small building. It’s all windows over there, so she brings her knees up to her chest and leans against the freezing glass. She’s not normally a fan of how cold the South is, but the chill is rather welcome against her cheek.

It’s days like this that make her wonder what it would be like if she’d never been born. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about getting people hurt or making them upset. Certainly feels like people would be better off that way sometimes.

Morinthe lets out an exhausted huff, fogging up the glass. She has this weird tightness in her chest, and her heart just won’t stop hammering. It’s the kind of thing that, normally, she’d take care of by running to the nearest bus stop hopping a town or two over. The idea of riding a bus or, heck, going anywhere by herself right now seems just as terrifying as staying still.

She furrows her brows in frustration. There’s all of this energy, these manic ants racing under her skin that can’t find any way out. Is this what stress balls are for? Maybe she can find something to fiddle with…

Morinthe scans the laundromat again. Someone’s left a pen on the floor, and clicking that might help, but it might also annoy the ever loving shit out of everyone in the vicinity. She could go click it in the bathroom… and make Sera think she’s either absolutely lost it or sick.

So, she settles for shaking her leg. Hard.

They get all of the clothes done, eventually, and Morinthe only nearly breaks down twice. All in all, it’s a pretty productive evening.

Sera still doesn’t talk to her for the rest of the night, beyond a one word sentence here and there. She shuts herself up in her room and locks the door, leaving Morinthe to her devices in the living room.

Morinthe settles into the beaten armchair and takes her phone out again, but before dialing, she turns the clunky tube T.V. in the corner on. That should help to cover up the chatter, hopefully.

It doesn’t take him long to pick up, never does. She wonders if he’s like that with every phone call.

“Hello?” Solas groggily answers.

“Are you tired? You don’t have to talk to me now, if there’s a better time--”

“No, no it is fine,” he sighs. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, looking at the T.V. screen. It’s that show with the duchess and other such fancy blokes in the abbey. Always seemed a bit melodramatic when she’d gotten around to watching it.

“Where are you? Are you safe?” he says. Oh no, his tone is all panick-y now.

“I’m okay,” she insists. “I’ve just had a long night.”

“Well, if you need anything…”

“I know,” she whispers. The duchess tarte seems to be having trouble picking between two other posh blokes. Seems like a pretty typical drama, nothing to go nuts over like the rest of the world. “What have you been up to?”

“Research, mainly,” Solas replies. “I was actually doing some late night reading just now.”

“What about?” she eagerly probes.

“Ancient dwarven ruins,” he explains. “Not my usual area of expertise, so I had to do a bit of digging.”

“Anything in particular bring on this newfound interest?” Morinthe asks.

“I am going to be assisting with a dig site in Antiva soon, and there were some details of their findings I wanted to investigate beforehand.” he drawls. “My search thus far has proven to be fruitless, however.”

“Now you know how I feel whenever I try to find something in a book,” Morinthe tuts.

“I suppose I will have to figure things out when I get there,” Solas admits.   


Morinthe smiles and leans against the arm of the chair. “Sounds a bit off the cuff for you, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“It is wise to be adaptable,” he remarks.

“I don’t know if I’m good or bad at that,” she ponders aloud.

“I think it depends on your perspective,” Solas says. “You survive well in nearly any environment, but you do tend to stick to some, unhealthy habits.”

“I’d say that about sums it up,” Morinthe sighs, covering her eyes with her free hand. “I’m working on it.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “It will come, in time.”

“Who knows how much time a person has, you know?” Morinthe tries to make it come off as a joke, but there’s a bit too much shakiness in her voice.

He doesn’t seem to find this very funny, if the extended silence on the other end is anything to go off of.

“No, I don’t,” he clips.

“Sometimes I wish I could, and then…”

“Sometimes you’d rather wonder?” he breathes.

“Yeah.”

The image on the screen begins to flicker and go fuzzy, as this set often does.

“Do you still…” she trails off. She can’t say it, not that word.

“Yes, always,” he asserts.

“But why? You barely know me at all,” Morinthe says.

“I, you…” he stutters. It’d almost be cute if she weren’t so frustrated. “What would you have me do? Make lists? I can, if that is what you truly desire.”

“No, you don’t need to,” Morinthe relents. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to prove yourself or anything. I wouldn’t want to set you loose upon the world with that mindset.”

“You make me sound like some kind of…”

“Maniac? I wouldn’t take it that far. Maybe just a little, impassioned.” Morinthe says.

“That is not the worst thing ever said about me, I suppose,” he chuckles. “I, um, want to ask something that might bother you.”

“Shoot,” she nervously replies.

“When can I see you again?” he whispers, like a secret.

“Well, I don’t know,” she mumbles. Where does he get off making her feel so damn flustered all the time? “Don’t you have some big important dig site to worry about?”

“Not for a few days still,” he quickly fills in. “You don’t have to come all this way. I could meet you somewhere.”

“In the middle?” Morinthe follows. “I guess, I still have to wait for my paperwork to go through. I’ve got some time on my hands to meet for lunch or something. I, can’t be gone too long though.”

“How come?” he asks.

“Sera’s just a bit, um, difficult sometimes,” Morinthe admits.

“Ah, well, I suppose she’ll have to be left in the dark then.”

“Are you suggesting I sneak out?” she scoffs playfully.

“She isn’t your mother, last I checked,” he answers in kind.

“No, but I am her guest. I owe her a bit of courtesy.” Morinthe hisses, warily eyeing the door.

“I won’t have to keep you long, I promise,” he says, in a way that assures her he’s lying through his teeth.

“Just long enough, right?” she jabs. “I’ll have to think on it. Sera’s miffed with me right now, and, I have some other things going on.”

“Alright,” he murmurs.

“Try not to sound so glum,” she jests. “It’s not forever.”

“No, it isn’t,” Solas agrees, more solemnly than she’d expected.

Morinthe sinks down into the recliner, which elicits a chorus of creaks from the aging springs. Should she tell him? He’d probably freak out, but then again, he’ll be livid if he finds out the hard way…

“Solas?” she says. It comes out too high, too thin.

“Yes?”

“I…” she gulps, like a damn cartoon. The words are right there, so close, but she can’t seem to reach them somehow. “Goodnight.”

“ _ Dareth’era _ ,” he breaths back, a thousand questions playing at the edges of his tone.

She hangs up before he can voice them.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

His last class shuffles out of the room in a quiet chorus of mumbled complaints and relief. Solas has never been a particularly well-liked professor, particularly amongst his undergrad students. He has never measured his success as an educator in how popular he is amongst the students, however.

Solas gathers up his laptop and a few choice articles he’s collected from the library for some further overnight research. He’s found next to nothing regarding the strange artifact pictured in the file, other than what Flemeth had already told him.

He is, obviously, hesitant to go anywhere near an object intended to combat the Evanuris, given his own identity. Perhaps it’s all just some cruel trap on Flemeth’s part; Mythal often played such games with him in his youth.

Solas had been her apprentice back then. She’d discovered him wandering, barely any older than a boy at the time. Mythal had seen his potential at a glance, and she never hesitates to make use of a potential chess piece. At the time, Solas had only ever dreamed of walking the gilded streets of Arlathan himself, or be witness to the power magic at play there. He’d practically slavered at the mouth at the thought of all he would learn under the goddess herself.

She’d taught him well, that much was true, and he’d have never risen so far in power without her patronage. Mythal was not a forgiving teacher, however. She’d put him through punishments that would make his own disgruntled students beg for his research papers. Solas would not put it past her or Flemeth to try to make a fool of him, or worse, for the sake of proving a point. He has been pushing his luck with her lately, after all.

Solas also can’t help his own curiosity, despite the obvious danger. She knows him too well, knows that he’d never pass on a chance to unravel the puzzle of this artifact for himself. What power could it hold, if any at all? Even he had failed to find any way to destroy the Evanuris, so what frightful solution could the children of the stone possibly crafted?

His flight is ten o’clock tomorrow, so he can’t stay up too late reading tonight. Solas doubts the articles from their meager library will offer any further insight. He has a compulsion to at least attempt to prepare, even if his efforts are futile.

Solas walks out of the building, doing his best not to make eye contact with anyone on his way out. Normally he wraps up whatever paperwork he has for the day in his office for a few hours, but he hasn’t the patience for it today. He’s more concerned about running into his collegues than anything else; he’s equally as unpopular amongst the staff as he is the students, if not more so.

It’s snowing again, unsurprisingly. He flips up the hood on his coat, and then he checks his telephone again. No messages from Morinthe. Something is wrong, he knows this much by now. Her call a few days ago had left him a bit shaken, admittedly. She’d sounded so unhinged, but of course she would never tell him why. Morinthe has always been one to let herself burn from the inside out before she’d make a fuss.

Solas’ instinct is to go to her immediately, to find whatever this threat is and destroy it. Would that help, though? He has such trouble balancing her need of space with his fear of losing her. What more can he do than offer his help should she choose to ask for it?

Varric has sent him a message at least. He’s taken care of Solas’ hotel room already, and arranged for a rental car again. Solas wonders if it is generosity that drives him, or the desire to have Solas eternally indebted to him. It should be nice to drive through the Antivan countryside in whatever sportscar he’s procured this time. Solas rarely indulges in such luxuries himself, but when the opportunity presents itself…

Solas wonders if Morinthe has ever been to Antiva, in this life anyway. It’s possible, considering her wandering ways. He can see the sunshine in her hair in his mind’s eye, an easy smile on her face as the wind whips by them. If only in his idle fantasies, he’d once imagined traveling the world with her, not a care on either of their shoulders.

The drive home takes longer than usual, seeing as he’s leaving early enough to be caught in traffic. He’d very nearly gone off the road trying to read a text from Morinthe this morning; she’d changed her phone number and sent him a message to change his contact. Another troubling development. Normally, it’d be something rather mundane, but combined with the other factors, it seems suspicious.

Why did it have to be Denerim? He’d even be satisfied with Crestwood of all places. It at least it wouldn’t be so far of a drive.

His apartment is silent when he walks in, as usual. Solas wouldn’t go so far as to call it home, not really, but it does well enough.

Solas kicks off his shoes, and rather than putting them away as he normally would, he leaves them in the floor. He doesn’t make it to the bed; Solas finds himself suddenly without the energy. He knows he won’t be reading anymore tonight anyway.

Maybe he can get to the bottom of this tonight. She doesn’t appear in his dreams so often now, being as far away as she is. But he could seek her out if he wished, anywhere she goes really. It is a rather simple task, since he already knows where she is in the waking world. He may not even approach her at all, just check in perhaps.

When he does enter the Fade, Solas finds that she’s already there, or a shadow at least. The shade smiles at him and beckons before sprinting away through a dark wood.

He knows he’s being lured into something, but he’s curious as to what. Solas slowly prowls after, subconsciously shifting his shape. Her form is golden through the darkness just feet ahead, an easy beacon to follow.

The shade brings him a lake, which looks more like a great pool of ink. The shadow runs across the water before suddenly being submerged.

“Show yourself,” he commands the invisible presence.

“Must I, old friend? I see you have not fallen for my ruse. It was a rather half-hearted attempt, I will admit,” a voice whispers from every tree branch, reverberating through the leaves and bouncing against his skin.

“‘Old friend’, is it?” Solas dryly notes. “Last we met, I believe you were attempting to kill me, or am I mistaken?”

“Oh, you always were one to hold a grudge,” the voice sighs. “A terribly unattractive trait. I’m shocked you were able to reel in such a… specimen.”

“I may not have my foci,” Solas begins, doing his best to remain visibly unphased. “But I have been awake for some time, and much of my power is already restored. What of you, then?"

“I see the long years have done nothing but shower you in humility,” it sneers. “I only wished to offer a sign of friendship.”

“You have a peculiar way of doing so,” Solas cooly replies. 

“You should be careful of that girl of yours,” it snickers, as if in on some secret joke. “Never know when that sort might slip out of sight, you know.”

“Leave, now,” he quietly commands, his anger curling up around his feet. “Crawl back to whatever hole you came from.”

“And here I was, about to help you,” it sighs. “Oh well, go ahead and run off to your doom then.”

This does give him pause, even if it sounds like a rather empty threat.

“Yes, that orb of hers, it is rather curious isn’t it?” the voice eagerly goes on. “Not a single scholar has discovered anything like it in millennia, and yet here it is, now of all times. Those old, broken gods, they’ve done what they can to settle down, but you know they still hunger for the power. They’d do anything to return to their former glory, and there’s only one person standing in their way.”

“Mythal stands with me on this matter,” Solas quickly refutes. “She would never let things progress to that point. What reason would she have to turn on me now?”

“What indeed?” the creature murmurs.

Having done its mischief, the shadow and its vision vanish.

Truthful or not, this meeting cannot bode well. At the same time, he would definitely have to claim the artifact. Perhaps there is a way to keep it from Mythal until he can investigate it thoroughly.

It’s all just too convenient. An invisible threat is terrorizing his heart, and now this. He doesn’t like feeling vulnerable, but he has no way to help her in time if something should happen to her. And if he goes to Antiva, she’ll be an entire ocean away.

He does still have a small network of Eluvians, if it should come to it. The Cross Roads still aren’t an instant method of travel, but it would be faster and simpler than trying to arrange for a flight. Solas tries only to use them in the case of an emergency-- it’s difficult to explain to most people how someone manages to be in Nevarra at ten in the morning and still be on time for lunch in Redcliffe at noon.

Solas attempts to seek out Wisdom and Curiosity to see if they could give him any council, but his search comes up short. Perhaps his own frenzied state of mind has scared their gentle natures away.

He considers escaping into his memories to ease his mind, but that may only make matters worse. So, he wakes up instead.

The apartment is lit by the full moon through the windows, and nothing else. A noise breaks the silence-- his phone has fallen onto the floor, and there’s a new text waiting for him. The number isn’t familiar.

_ It’s Morinthe, I’ve changed my number,  _ the message says.

_ Alright, I’ll update my contact. Any reason in particular? _

_ Just wanted to change over my phone company,  _ she answers.

Solas can’t decide whether or not it’s a lie. Texting in convenient, but there are countless visual and audial cues that are lost in translation.

When Morinthe is being dishonest, she never makes eye contact. It had been very rare before for her to ever lie, much less to him, but now she seems to be constantly trying to hide something. It isn’t done maliciously, but it does still hurt. Solas did cash in her trust some time ago. Though she may have forgotten the details, he can’t help feeling like some part of her may still instinctively want to keep her distance.

_ Thank you _ , he replies.

_ See you, _ she quickly sends back.

Solas locks the screen and lays it face-down on his chest. Her turns his gaze to the moon outside as it emerges from the clouds. This will all be sorted out soon enough. He just has to make certain that none of it would reach her. He’d kill them, each and every last one of the fallen ‘gods’ if need be. He’d brought them back into this world, and Solas had no issue with removing them again, especially now that their power was cut off from them.

Perhaps that’s exactly what he wants. He wouldn’t put it past one of them. How better to take care of one’s enemies than by turning them against each other?

Against his best efforts, his eyes start to fall shut once more. Whatever this plot is, it seems the issue will have to wait until tomorrow at least.

* * *

 

The flight the next day isn’t as painful as he’d anticipated. He usually travels in coach, as he isn’t made of money, so he’s used to being stuffed in with a horde of unhygienic rude people constantly invading his space. Varric has booked him for first class this time, however. It’s overall a quiet flight with decent food, and he even has enough room for his legs for once.

He spends most of his time either grading papers or looking over the notes the researchers in Antiva have sent him. They don’t know the focus of his visit, so they haven’t included much on the artifact. The other items they’ve uncovered, though unimportant, are interesting enough to distract him for a while.

To say he doesn’t think of her for most of the five hour flight would be a lie, of course. Solas checks his phone constantly, but he doesn’t receive any new messages. It’s been days since she’s really spoken to him, and there’s not been a single word on whatever it is that’s been troubling her. If he were there in person, he could probably figure it out on his own. With so little information, though, he’s helpless to do anything.

Solas must track down this new foe as well. Could he have something to do with all of this? Perhaps those archeologists were meant to find the artifact, for what reason he cannot ascertain before he figures out its purpose.

The research and even his students’ papers begin to be stressful. Varric has said for years that Solas needs to see a psychiatrist, but he’s never been comfortable with the idea of opening up to a stranger. Solas does wonder if taking some medication might help with his anxiety,though, particularly as of late. Not having so much on his hands to take care might be beneficial as well.

Solas reaches into his carry-on and retrieves his sketchbook. He doesn’t have much time to draw these days, but he tries to keep up with it when he has time. For lack of any other references, he starts to sketch his shoe. The repetitive motion and focus required eases his nerves a great deal, until his phone starts to vibrate. He looks down and scowls instinctively.

Solas hangs up on Flemeth and sends a text instead.

_ Still on my flight, what do you need? _

_ Have you heard the news? , _  Flemeth  asks.

_ What news,  _ Solas questions, his heart leaping back up into his throat.

She sends him a link this time, which leads his to a news article.

It’s written in Antivan, so he can only understand bits and pieces. What jumps out to him are the words ‘robbery’ and ‘digsite’. The pictures alongside it are enough to tell him what he already suspects-- someone had snuck onto the digsite and stolen some of the researchers’ findings.

_ Do you think they took the artifact?,  _ Solas asks.

_ It’s the only thing that was taken. That’s why this online outlet is the only one that even mentioned the case. The archeologists can’t even understand why it was stolen when there were gold and bejeweled items all around the thing _ , Mythal explains.

_ This is no coincidence. Could one of your people have turned on you?, _ he sends.

_ It’s possible. I still want you to go and investigate. I’ll examine my contacts and see if I can find a rat, if there is one. I’ll get back with you later. _

_ Alright,  _ he replies.

The dream last night seems suddenly far too convenient to be coincidental. So his death waits in Antiva then? He may not have to look too hard for the perpetrators then-- they may very well come for him. The artifact was likely meant to challenge gods, no? He seriously doubts some random thugs would be able to utilize such a weapon, though. Solas is more irritated than fearful.

To think that one of them would come back after all of these years. The Forgotten Ones were just that, ancient and deprived of nearly all their power last he’d known. It isn’t shocking to think they’d see their chance, now that the Evanuris are no longer a threat. Solas would be the only one powerful enough to silence any grab for power now.

Why warn him, though? If he were meant to be assassinated upon arriving in Antiva, surely it would be counter productive to let Solas in on the plan beforehand. No, there’s more to this than a simple plot to end his life.

If this has anything to do with whatever is plaguing Morinthe, the bastard will wish he’d stayed in the depths of the Void where he belongs. There will be no mercy, if that turns out to be the case.

Solas sighs through his nose and turns back to his sketch book. Any potential retribution will have to wait another two hours for now.

He takes out a pair of earbuds and plays some music through his phone. It’s the same tune Morinthe had sang to him once, but an orchestral version. He’d never had an particular attachment to the piece, even back when he could’ve seen an original live performance in Elvhenan. It’s grown on him, though.

As his pencil scratches against the paper, he lets himself be consumed in his work. He’s abandoned the shoe by now. Instead, he’s mapping out a dragon’s head. He lulls off into a trance of sorts, and for a while the storm of concerns and fears drift off to the back of his consciousness.


	12. Chapter 12

Morinthe jolts out of sleep with a start. She’s not sure what it was she’d been dreaming about, but she knows now that her heart is beating too fast again. Her chest feels like it’s caving in on itself-- the walls are lined with leaping soot, crawling across the carpet toward her shaking feet.

Is it sad to say she’s become used to this? She’s been having these attacks often enough as of late that waking up at four in the morning is starting to seem routine. Morinthe tries to take deep, steadying breaths as she crosses the room. She does her best to avoid the soot particles, and she pours herself a glass of water at the kitchenette. She splashes her face a few times for good measure as well.

The water doesn’t calm it completely, but washing her face grounds herself in reality enough to make the dancing darkness go away. Now she just has to do her best not to start hyperventilating.

She inhales through her nose until the count of four, and then she releases the air through her mouth for eight counts. Just like they did in stretches before dance practice. She really does need to take up dance again, even if it’s just as a hobby. She’s read somewhere that exercise can help with working off anxiety.

Morinthe sits down on the tile and leans against the cabinet under the sink. Her hands won’t stop shaking, controlled breathing or no. Hopefully it’ll go away before Sera wakes up. Morinthe thinks she’s been able to hide most of  this from her friend, even if she does have her suspicions. Morinthe has changed her number now, and since yesterday the texts have stopped. If her assumption is right, then whoever this is will get bored and move on once he figures out the number is disconnected.

_ Or they’ll want to deliver the message in person _ , her paranoia pipes up.

She promptly tells paranoia to go fuck itself. Nothing has physically happened yet, and Morinthe at least hasn’t fed into any of this. If she doesn’t react, then the situation won’t escalate any further.

Morinthe squeezes her eyes shut and focuses on the soft sounds of birds waking outside. They probably annoy most people, making such a ruckus before regular hours, but they’ve become quite a comfort as of late. She doesn’t feel like she’s entirely alone, at least.

The shadows pop in and out of her vision as she stretches her legs out in front of her, but at least the feeling of scittering ants on her arms has died down. Why do her legs have to be so short? Her teachers have always said she’d be a better dancer if she were only a few inches taller. That’s why Dalish dances always came a bit more naturally than Orlesian ballet-- they were choreographed with elves in mind, not humans.

She pulls her feet together and lays herself over them, letting her mind focus only on the stretch in her inner thighs. Her heart starts to slow as she goes through the rest of her stretches, and even her mind is working a little less frantically. Morinthe knows she’s really only treating the symptoms and not the problem, but at least she can think straight.

Morinthe has made a date with Lucia today. She’s admittedly a bit afraid to go out, but being with someone seems like a better option than being shut up by herself in the house while Sera is at work.

Technically, Morinthe has been hired on to help Ms. Pentaghast around the house for a day. She needs someone to help move her furniture and all of the pictures back now that her walls have been painted. If any old woman could help fend off a stalker, it’s probably Lucia anyway.

Morinthe is half-tempted to ask Sera to walk with her to Lucia’s house. She’d know something is really wrong, though. Morinthe has never been the type to be afraid to go somewhere on her own, not normally.

Along with the new number, there’s a fresh can of peppers spray in her bag as well. She’d prefer a taser, but that’s not currently in her price range, not until she’s able to find a job anyway. Morinthe still has her switchblade as well; she figures it’ll be easier to stab someone who’s already incapacitated. Does that go beyond self defense? She’d rather not have to find out.

Morinthe creeps back into the recliner and turns the television on. She turns the volume down so as not to disturb Sera, even though the girl sleeps like the dead. Morinthe looks through the infomercial, rather than actually watching it. It’s enough to empty her mind until sunrise, at least.

Sera stumbles out of her room at around seven o’clock with her hair in some strange, windswept haystack formation atop her head. Robotically, she goes about making herself some instant ramen noodles over in the kitchenette.

“You’re granny-sitting again today, right?” Sera says as she slouches down by the foot of the recliner with her ‘food’.

“You could say that,” Morinthe answers. “She’s having her house redone.”

“Thinking about buying a new vacuum too?” Sera asks furrowing her brows at the television.

“No, I wasn’t really paying attention,” Morinthe admits.

“Don’t mind if I change the channel, then?” Sera assumes, and she snatches the ancient remote off of the armrest.

She flips over to the morning news, of all things.

“Since when do you watch the news?” Morinthe asks, nudging Sera’s shoulder with her knee.

“They were filming out in front of the game store yesterday. I want to see if I’m a celebrity now,” Sera explains. “I would’ve mooned the cameras, but I kind of need that job.”

The show goes on about the usual inane local nonsense for a while before Sera’s segment final starts. Sure enough, the game store flashes on screen along with a view of the rest of the block.

“Damn,” Sera sighs. “It’s too dark outside to see through the windows. I could’ve been a star.”

Just as Sera moves to change the channel again, the voiceover says, “Yesterday at approximately nine-thirty PM, the third break in in the area was reported. Investigators have not released any information on potential suspects--”

And then suddenly she’s watching a movie about a three-headed shark battling a giant piranha.

“The game store is only a block or two away from Lucia’s house,” Morinthe wonders aloud. 

“Yeah, guess so,” Sera replies with a shrug. “Denerim can be a tough town, though. Most folks keep some ‘insurance’ in their house just in case, if you get what I mean. I wouldn’t run my head off over it, bug.”

“I hope they’re caught soon,” Morinthe murmurs, her teeth digging sharply into her lip.

“No one’s been hurt, far as I’ve heard,” Sera dismisses. “And it’s not like we’ve got much of a high horse to stand on in that regard.”

She’s right, of course. Morinthe knows what it’s like to be broke and desperate, but even still. There’s other ways to find cash in a pinch than breaking and entering.

“Hey, Morinthe?” Sera suddenly says. It’s alarming-- she rarely ever uses her full name. She’s about to say something serious, shit.

“I hope I haven’t, um, made you feel not comfortable or something,” Sera fumbles. “If there’s, ah, anything I can do…”

Morinthe frowns, and she gives Sera’s shoulder a squeeze. Her friend, her best friend, turns and looks at her then. Her eyes look a bit older than they should; it occurs to Morinthe that they have both been through a lot.

“I… you haven’t done anything wrong Sera,” Morinthe sighs. “I should have told you before, but, I’m really proud, impressed I mean. You’ve really pulled yourself together, better than I ever could.”

“None of that crap,” Sera whispers. “If an idiot like me can manage, you sure as shit can.”

“Do you have to work down in the parlor tonight?” Morinthe asks.

“A little, but I should be free to go at around seven or so,” Sera answers.

“Let’s grab some cheap beer and watch crappy B-movies tonight, just like old times,” Morinthe proposed with a wry smirk.

“I’m a bit more sophist-a-micated now, bug,” Sera snarks at length. “We’ll have slightly nicer beer and watch shit movies. Might prank Mira too, while we’re at it. Old biddy has it coming to her.”

“It’s a date then,” Morinthe agrees.

“Whelp, gots to go put on real clothes then,” Sera grunts as she checks her bright orange swatch. The saddest part is how unsurprised Morinthe is to see that she’s held onto hers twenty years after they’d gone out of style. She gives Morinthe a swift, tight hug and trounces off into her room.

Morinthe picks her now empty cup ramen and tosses it into the trash.

Going out drinking isn’t in her comfort zone at the moment, but a stay-in night is something she can handle. It used to be all they did, after all.

After being rescued, Morinthe had lived with Sera and her girlfriend for a while. Looking back, Morinthe is surprised they managed as long as they did before the girlfriend ended up kicking her out. She could never stand Morinthe-- that girl was always the crazy jealous type. They’d had to hide whenever she and Sera would hang out from the other girl a lot of the time. Aside from that, they barely had a dime to their names anyway, so they ended up spending a lot of time holed up indoors.

Sera practically runs out the door, almost late as usual. Morinthe gets dressed and heads out soon after.

* * *

Lucia is waiting by the door when Morinthe arrives. She lets her into the house with only a grunt as greeting, but Morinthe has a feeling that this is just how she treats everyone.

The narrow entryway seems slightly larger with the new paintjob. The walls are all an off-white eggshell color; it brightens up the room immensely. Much better than the dark brown wall paper, in her opinion.

“I’ve been able to get some of the pictures up again, but there’s still a dresser that I need to move back against the wall,” she stiffly explains as she leads Morinthe down the hall. “How have things been with you, then?”

The question puts Morinthe off balance for a second, but she’s able to construct an answer quick enough. “Fine. I’m still waiting on a call to schedule my appointment to see if I can get a worker’s visa.”

“Bullshit, basically?” Lucia gruffly chuckles. She heads into the kitchen, where it seems the counters have been redone as well. They’re a light gray granite now. Lucia pours each of them a mug of coffee.

“Cream or sugar?” she asks.

“I’ll drink it black,” Morinthe says.

“Good,” Lucia says, giving her a probing glance. “Never could stand the stuff, but I keep some for guests.”

She sits down at the kitchen table and gestures to the seat across from hers. The chairs don’t match, and she’s relatively certain there had only been one at the table last time. There’s also a closed folder resting in the center.

“You wanted to know more about Clan Lavellan, yes?” Lucia states more than asks. Morinthe only nods in answer. Lucia flips the folder open and says, “I’ve been looking through some old pictures and journals. This is all I have on hand, though I’m sure there’s more in our ancestral home in Nevarra. It has been years since I last visited the place.”

“You didn’t have to do all of that,” Morinthe replies in grateful shock.

“No, I didn’t have to. I  _ wanted _ to,” Lucia firmly says. “Our conversation stirred my curiosity as well. I had not thought on the matter for years, but I too have wondered at the connection between our families.”

“You said it goes back to the second Inquisition, right?” Morinthe recalls.

“Yes, Clan Lavellan did aid the Inquisition in the Dragon Age, though I have had trouble finding any records how they were involved,” Lucia admits. “There are a great deal of records from that time which were purged after the fall of Divine Victoria.”

“History is written by the sisters,” Morinthe comments.

“I do consider myself Andrastian, but the Chantry does have its share of faults,” Lucia agrees. “It seems a crime that such a long standing pact could be forgotten so easily, no?”

“Yeah,” Morinthe breathes. “I don’t think I’ve ever even met a Pentaghast before you.”

“You may have, but perhaps you did not know it,” Lucia says. She picks a photograph out of the folder and slides it across the table to her.

Morinthe does recognize the picture, after all. Her human ‘aunt’ from childhood, but her face is much younger than she remembers.

“Lucretia,” Lucia affirms. “My older cousin. She lived in Wycome up to her dying day, and I believe she was the last of our family to be in touch with your clan before we were cut off.”

“I see the resemblance now,” Morinthe agrees. “I was so young; I guess I never really gave her last name much thought.”

“She sent me a letter a few years before she passed,” Lucia explains. “I seem to have spilt coffee on it at one point or another, but I do have it still.”

She hands Morinthe a sealed envelope, which is obviously newer than the contents.

“No, it’s yours,” Morinthe insists, holding up her hands. “I’m just a stranger--”

“I was never able to make much sense of it myself,” Lucia dismisses. “I always thought her mind was leaving her toward the end. You are from the clan, though, so I had figured you might get more out of it than I could.”

There’s something very pointed about the way she looks at Morinthe then, even more so than usual. So, Morinthe takes the envelope without another word.

“For now,” Lucia says abruptly, “I still need a hand with the dresser, if you do not mind.”

“Alright,” Morinthe says, and she places the envelope in her bag.

Between the two of them, the dresser is a relatively small load. Getting it up the tight staircase is a bit trickier, though. Morinthe take the bottom end, and most of the weight, while Lucia guides the way at the top.

They take it into the guest room, which is still bare of pictures. That’s their next task. Morinthe pays a great deal of attention to each frame they hang, and there’s at least a couple hundred of them in total. Many are newer of grandchildren and nieces and nephews, but there are a few here and there of elves with marked faces. All of these are devoid of color completely, yet they breathe a strange kind of life all the same.

“Do you remember what Deshanna and the twins were like when they were young?” Morinthe asks.

“Deshanna was a bit too old to want to hang around me much, and so were the boys. Those two delighted in tormenting me, but they were rather fond of Lucretia,” Lucia remarks with a sly look. “I remember them getting into a fist fight over the girl one Summer, if I am not mistaken.”

It’s not too hard for Morinthe to imagine. The twins, Faron and Enasalin, were always sort of known as the ‘fun’ elders. They were wise, in their way, but they were never quite so serious and austere in regards to the ‘old ways’ like the other elders. The twins were the host of a scavenger hunt one year-- the catch was, they’d stolen nearly every left shoe on the reservation and hidden them. Their excuse was that it taught the children to be better hunters, or some other horse piss like that.

“Enasalin died of leukemia when I was twelve,” Morinthe recalls. “Faron only made it about six months after that.”

“Yes, I heard,” Lucia sighs. “I had wished to attend the service afterward, but I was not invited.”

“That was around the time that we started to stop trusting outsiders as much. It wasn’t so bad back then, but only people who were very close to the clan were there,” Morinthe admits. “I do remember seeing Aunt Lucretia, at least.”

“Yes, I do believe she wrote to me about it,” Lucia says. She hands Morinthe a frame as she fiddles with hanging another. “It really is such a shame. The Lavellans held such a strong presence of Wycome back then.”

“We could have really set a precedent for change,” Morinthe remarks hollowly. “I suppose there’s no helping them now.”

“Do you remember what was happening in the clan right as it happened?” Lucia asks. She’s got that tone in her voice now, the one that won’t rest until it has an answer. “Did anything jump out to you?”

“Well, Deshanna’s son...” Morinthe says. “Surely you would have heard? He, um, got into a fight with a few guys at school. I think it was over a girl or some stupid crap. He got hit in the head, and he ended up going into a coma. He died in the hospital.”

“Yes, I know,” Lucia confirms. “But immediately after, did you notice anything strange about Deshanna, or the people around her? The turn in the tide seems a bit extreme for what was, ultimately, an accident, do you not agree?”

Morinthe frowns and looks down at the picture in her hands. It’s of a very unhappy looking baby is a long, white dress.

“Do you know something I don’t, Lucia?” Morinthe asks.

“Not precisely,” Lucia muses. “I just… cannot help this feeling that there is something missing. A perfectly open and functioning clan does not turn into a cult overnight without reason.”

“It wasn’t overnight,” Morinthe murmurs. She’s fumbling with the hanging of this particular picture-- she’d probably have better luck if her hands weren’t shaking so much. “It was slower. Deshanna was overcome by grief, so… Kahnden, her nephew stepped in. He was somewhat young to be an elder, from my parents’ generation, but with two of our leaders having left us and all the uncertainty in the air… he seemed a good fit. He was strong, but a bit more on the radical end. He claimed that putting our children into public schools instead of teaching from home was the reason for our First’s death, among other things.”

There’s suddenly a hand on her shoulder, which nearly makes her jump. Lucia’s face is almost soft as she says, “It is hard on you, I apologize. I will not trouble you anymore tonight.”

“You haven’t, really,” Morinthe sighs. “I… I can’t bury the past forever.”

“No, you cannot,” Lucia intones grimly. “Believe me, it has a way of clawing its way out from the depths eventually.”

The thought makes her blood run cold. She certainly hopes that isn’t the case, though she’s relatively certain they’ve all but forgotten her by now. Surely.

By the time they are done, the sky is starting to become awash is violets and orange. Morinthe thanks Lucia for the evening, and though she tries to refuse payment, the old bird is as unrelenting as ever.

As Morinthe walks down the cement walkway, Lucia calls from the door, “Take care of yourself, Morinthe,”

Morinthe looks back over her shoulder at the woman. She has a wary look on her face, as if she has something to say that she just can’t put into words.

“You do the same, Lucia,” she answers back.

She heads off to the tattoo shop, unable to shake the overwhelming sense of dread in her heart.


	13. Chapter 13

When Solas arrives Antiva, he isn’t immediately attacked. He actually manages to pick up the rental car and make it all the way to his hotel and the dig site after without incident.

He steps out of his car, shoes crunching on the dry disturbed earth as he gives the area a once over. The entrance to the thaig has been carefully covered with a large tent, and there are several smaller tents positioned around it. Out of the largest tent, a dwarven woman with bright red hair emerges, and upon seeing him, her eyes brighten.

She jogs up to him, mouth open in greeting when he says, “Dagna, I presume? You were the one who requested my assistance, yes?”

“Yes!” she confirms excitedly. Little has changed about her, it would seem. “Although, it would seem the subject of my request has mysteriously vanished, somehow.”

“Ah, yes,” he confirms. “The orb-like artifact? I had read about your break in.”

“It’s the stangest thing--” she mutters, and then she shakes her head. “Oh well, I still have my notes. The ‘real archeologists’ didn’t take me seriously, but it seemed almost Elvhen in make. I thought, well, if anyone might have an idea it would be you.”

“I am afraid, Arcanist, that I have not seen another artifact of its like, even in my many years of study,” he says.

“I performed some experiments on it,” she whispers, looking anxiously around. “Don’t tell them, though. I may or may not have been going against the direct orders of my supervisor.”

A human, surprisingly, comes out of the central tent next. He looks at Solas, then to Dagna, and he gives an acute look of exasperation.

“Mr, ah, what was it?” he asks, a long shaky arm raised in invitation.

“Solas,” he coolly replies, not moving an inch.

“Arcanist Dagna sent for you, yes? Well, the artifact in question is no longer here, and we are just about ready to wrap up our work here in a few days.” he explains, irritably scratching at his mustache as he speaks.

He is a wiry, tall sort of man. Surely, he must be even taller than he appears, for he stands with a rather crooked posture. Aside from looking perhaps a tad disheveled, his hair and clothes all seem clean, though there is an understandable amount of dirt under his fingernails.

“Your accent, it is not Antivan,” Solas murmurs. “Are you a Marcher?”

“Why, um, yes actually,” he says. He has a rather strange way of talking, as if he’s not used to way his own mouth moves.

“In the file I was given, the supervisor was Antivan, if I’m not mistaken,” Solas muses aloud. “Dovinetti, I believe? I met the man while working on another project a few years ago.”

“I am Serah Stefan Richardson,” he explains at length, “I was sent in after--”

“Doctor Dovinetti collapsed five days ago, and Serah Richardson has been entrusted to finish out the excavation,” Dagna interrupts suddenly. She has a strange look in her eye, and her voice is a bit higher pitched than usual. “And then there’s this robbery just yesterday on top of it all--”

“Anyway,” Richardson interrupts. He smiles-- Solas supposes the gesture is meant to look kind, but there is something just subtly wrong about the way it slides onto his face. “Though we are going to have to end our little excursion soon, I would still be happy to give you a show of the place if you’ve a mind.”

“Certainly,” Solas answers, unable to rid himself of his unease. As they make their way toward the center tent, he makes sure to let Ser Richardson walk ahead of him. Dagna follows along, straying closer to Solas’ side than to her supervisor’s.

Underneath the confines of the tent is the open mouth of the freshly unearthed thaig. Solas remembers just why he’s always been drawn more to surface structures as he descends into the crumbling gateway. He does take a moment to admire the intricate carvings which line it-- a welcoming phrase, or perhaps a threat to trespassers? Solas will have to take a closer look if he get the chance. Perhaps Dagna has taken some notes on them as well.

The thaig itself, or what little they have unearthed of it, is rather small in comparisons to most settlements he’s visited. A great number of the hallways they pass, however, have collapsed entirely, and every so often the small group has to edge their way around the odd bottomless pit or two.

“We believe this thaig may date back to the Titans!” Dagna exclaims. “Which is why we haven’t really been able to uncover much since we’ve been here. These walls are so delicate after all this time…”

“Dangerous, she means,” Richardson solemnly corrects. “There was another collapse only this morning, I believe.”

“Yeah, almost got caught up in it myself,” Dagna shakily adds. “We’ve done the best we can, but funding for our project was always going to run out eventually.”

“How did an arcanist find herself working an archeological site anyway?” Solas asks, folding his hands behind his back as they walk.

“Well, I wasn’t at first. Once the Doc figured out just how old this place really was, though, an associate of his decided to invite the closest thing to an expert on the Titans that was available,” Dagna explains, with only a hint of smugness in her tone.

“What sparks your interest in the Titans, other than your heritage?” Solas probes, partially out of genuine curiosity, but also as an excuse to eye up Richardson while the man thinks he isn’t looking.

“I’ve only really gotten into them since I started grad school, but I guess my way of looking at the issue is considered somewhat revolutionary. Or crazy. Perhaps a bit of both,” Dagna thinks aloud. “I think the Titans are the key to understanding the dwarves and their relationship to the Fade, or lack thereof. I honestly only came down here to do research for my thesis, at first anyway.”

“Where are you currently studying?” Solas continues, noting the meaningful way she looks at him.

“Well, I got my bachelor's at the Enchanter’s College in Orlais, but for graduate school I decided it would be best to go back to Orzammar if I really wanted to study the Titans. I suppose I’ll be headed back that way soon, with all that’s been going on here. Don’t want another chamber to fall on me, do I?” Dagna chirps.

The supervisor, despite having been the one to offer the tour, is relatively silent as they move from room to room. Dagna is the one who is content to do most of the talking, as she’s been involved with the project for nearly five months, while he has had less than a week.

They come to the end of the main corridor, and the deepest part of what has been unearthed. There is a large gateway here, that has been blocked almost entirely by debris.

“Well, as you can see, this is all that we’ve managed to uncover--” Richardson states as he begins to turn away.

“Actually,” Dagna suddenly pipes up. “There was a chamber just past here. It’s where I found that thing I wanted to ask you about. I guess we could’ve examined it, but, pity, it just so happened to collapse this morning while I was studying it. I have all the luck, don’t I?”

“I don’t know, I’d wait on that,” Richard casually remarks as he guides them back where they’d come.

Solas gives Dagna a wary look, and she is rather unusually silent as they make their way to the surface.

She gives him a cheerful wave in the rearview mirror as Solas drives back to his hotel, and he can’t help the concern pooling in his gut. That dwarf is braver than he’d ever credited her, if she’d speak out in front of someone she suspects of having attempted to kill her.

So the artifact he has been sent to retrieve not only goes misses, but even the chamber it was discovered in has been destroyed just as he arrives? On top of it all, that strange man appears right before all of this mayhem takes place. Solas does not quite see where his doom fits into all of this, but it is admittedly more than suspicious at this point.

While he’s crossing the lobby of his hotel back in town, his phone vibrates in his pocket. When he checks it, the message is not from Morinthe or Mythal, but an unknown number.

_ Hey, it’s Dagna! Call me, ASAP. _

* * *

Bug is just walking into the shop as Sera finishes up with her last client. Mira is hovering over Sera’s shoulder, of course, making sure she doesn’t screw up the tiny little outline of a kitty cat. Everyone has to start somewhere, right?

She looks better, looks worse in some ways. Morinthe had been so shaky this morning, even though she thought she was hiding it. Sera would be lying if she wasn’t hoping that maybe getting slightly tipsy would get her to open up about whatever it is that’s been going on. A part of her thinks that whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as the million possibilities Sera has tussling about in her mind.

By the time she gets upstairs, Morinthe is already turning a green bottle over in her hands.

“You’re sposed’ to drink it, not dissect it,” Sera tells her as she roughly shuts the door behind her.

“I’ve never heard of this brand before,” Morinthe remarks. “Where is it from?”

“The finest horse piss, straight from Orzammar!” Sera proudly proclaims. She snatches the bottle out of her hands and opens it with the multi-tool she keeps in her pocket. “Nasty, but less nasty than most beer I’ve tried.”

Sera takes a generous gulp, carelessly wipes her mouth on her sleeve, and bounds over to the t.v. set.

“So,” she begins, “I’ve got Netflix, so we’re pretty much set as far as bad movies go. The question is where to start…”

Her first instinct is to go to the horror section, but Morinthe pipes up, “Um, nothing scary tonight. Even silly scary, honestly. Maybe something more on the action side?”

“Okay,” Sera replies with a shrug. She takes her spot in the floor, her back leaning against the foot of the recliner.

Morinthe tilts her head, and she’s doing the thing where she stares at you and says something she shouldn’t know. “How come you sit in the floor? It’s your chair.”

“You’re my guest,” Sera chirps, taking another swig. “Floor’s nasty, anyway. Really need to get the carpet cleaned.”

Morinthe narrows her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t have to, really. 

Maybe it’s because she’s starting to get tipsy, but Sera blurts out, “It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?” she asks.

“Life,” Sera sighs.

She turns away and picks a disaster movie. Something about a volcano killing everybody. Good.

Morinthe takes a bottle from the six pack, and Sera opens it without a word. She plops down into the recliner; Sera leans against her knee. This is going to be a good night, she reminds herself.

The movie is hot garbage, but just the perfect kind of trash. When the two banging teenagers get boiled in a lake out in the woods, Bug actually laughs. Really laughs, not a fake or nervous one. That eases things up a lot.

“I don’t get it,” Morinthe slurs. Sera’s only half of the way through her beer, and Morinthe is well into her second at around the thirty minute marker. “Why don’t they just leave?”

“The airport melted I think,” Sera recalls. “Something something, arrogance of man, something something, don’t build subways under volcanoes.”

“Why would they build a city right by a volcano anyway?” Morinthe says, punctuating her sentence with a hiccup.

“I dunno,” Sera agrees. “Why  _ do _ people keep doing that? Never turns out well.”

“I think volcanic ash is supposed to be good for crops or something,” Morinthe muses. “Seems like the cons potentially outweigh the pros in that situation.”

“Well, people don’t always do what’s best for them,” Sera mutters.

“No, they don’t…” Morinthe solemnly agrees. Solemn? Shit, Sera’s done it again.

“That’s okay,” Sera says, giving her a reassuring pat on the leg, “If we were all pretty little Chantry sisters making all the best choices all the time, we’d be an awful boring couple of biddies, wouldn’t we?”

“You’re right about that much,” Morinthe snorts in agreement.

Morinthe chugs what’s left of her beer, and she nearly falls out of the recliner probing the floor for the half empty six pack.

“Maybe want to slow down a bit? That chair smells bad enough without a coat of vomit on it,” Sera remarks, subtly nudging the remaining bottles away from her friend with her toe.

“I need it…” she whines pathetically. “My life is going to shit, give me a break.”

“Seriously bug,” Sera says. “If I’m telling you to slow down, we’ve got a problem. This ain’t a frat house Mo.”

Morinthe groans and hides her face in her hand. “Shit, fuck, why do I have to be such a damn lightweight?”

“Maybe because you weigh about a hundred pounds soaking wet,” Sera flatly replies.

Morinthe snorts like a damn pig in response. “I’m heavier than I look…”

“Let me get you some water bug,” Sera sighs. She walks over to the kitchenette and grabs a glass, being careful to take her own beer with her.

“So, like,” Morinthe asks, flinging her hand about illustratively as she speaks. “What  _ kind  _ of bug am I? Are we talking ladybug, spider, dung beetle? You’ve got to be more specific.”

“A drunk one,” Sera answers, shoving the glass of water into her hands.

“Not quite, I’d say more,  _ severely tipsy _ ,” Morinthe hypothethizes into her glass. “If I were really drunk, I probably wouldn’t be talking so much. And I likely wouldn’t be wearing any pants, either. Depends on who’s been around my glass.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Sera sighs, plopping herself back down at the foot of the chair.

“Well if anyone has the right to, I do,” Morinthe snickers. It’s a bitter, hollow sound, a bit like bones rattlin’ in an old sack.

“Hey, fun night, remember?” Sera says, giving her ankle a comforting squeeze.

“That’s all do, though,” Morinthe mutters. “Act like nothing’s wrong. I pretend and pretend, but it never stops hurting.”

Sera crawls up into the recliner next to her, and she silently wraps her arms around the girl as she curls into her side. It’s a familiar position.

“You can sleep in the bed tonight if you want to bug,” Sera tells her hair. “I won’t mind, honest.”

“But if I sleep, I’ll have to get up again,” she grumbles.

“Damn straight you will, if I have to drag you,” Sera teases. “Might be some aspirin thrown in the mix, though.”

“I’m not that drunk,” Morinthe insists. “Just tired, and sad, and maybe a little drunk too.”

“Yep, sounds like it’s naptime then kiddo. Come on,” Sera grunts.

Turns out Morinthe is a little heavier than she looks after all.

“It’s muscle, I swear,” Morinthe groans as Sera tries and fails to tug her out of the recliner. “Mostly.”

Sera ends up basically dumping Morinthe into the bed. She does believe her to an extent-- even to a tiny thing like her, two drinks isn’t enough to knock someone out. It makes her even more worried than before.

“Hey bug,” Sera says. 

She peeks at up at her through one slit eye, “hmm?”

There’s so many things she wants to say, but about half of them aren’t quite words. More a jumble of half drawn pictures and disconnected blurbs all trying to get out one mouth that’s not even half big enough to fit.

“Goodnight,” she mumbles, and she stumbles out of the room.

She might end up clearing out the rest of that horse piss tonight after all.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Solas ends up meeting Dagna in a fast food restaurant at seven o’clock, at her insistence. She doesn’t seem quite as cheerful this time around.

“Hey, crazy isn’t it?” she sighs, sliding into the other side of the booth. Solas has purchased a drink that he doesn’t touch, if only to appease the employee staring warily at him from across the front counter.

“Which it are we refering to?” Solas asks, rolling his shoulders. The jet lag hadn’t been as bad before, but it really is hitting him now.

“It!” Dagna exclaims, gesturing broadly. “All of this crap. The Titans are interesting and everything, but break ins? The ceiling nearly collapsing on me? And that creep they sent in from… who even knows where? I’m getting out of here; next flight to Ferelden has my name on it.”

“Reasonable enough,” Solas agrees.

“Dovinetti was healthier than a druffalo, too, the entire time I’ve been here, and now he’s in a coma,” Dagna tells him with a shudder.

“Here’s a copy of my notes,” she continues. She hands a hard drive to Solas with a shaky hand. “I’m going to try to find a different hotel, just to be certain.”

“Are you truly that certain someone is out for your life?” Solas asks, his brow quirking reflexively.

“I’m not really certain of anything at this point,” Dagna sighs. Even though it’s plenty warm in the restaurant, she rubs her hands together as if she’s freezing. “It’s hard, you know. I love to learn, but every now and again you come across something you’d have rather wondered about, right?”

“At times,” Solas says. He slips the hard drive into the inner pocket of his coat.

Dagna stands, and looks between her trembling hands and him a few times before whispering, “And please, if it matters, let her know I guarded it as best as I could. I don’t know what that thing is, but… you should be careful.”

She flashes him a bright smile, the same one she’d given him before, which strains at the corners. Then, before he can pick up his slack jaw, she rushes out of the building.

So that is the true source of her fear, then. If she believes she has failed Flemeth, than she has a right to be wary. Attempting to bury the girl alive seems like something the witch might do when truly angered, but he doubts it was her. They no doubt would have gloated if Flemeth or Mythal had intended Dagna to die, and more importantly, Dagna would never have escaped that thaig.

It makes sense that Flemeth would plant someone to watch over the artifact until his arrival. Dagna has said that she’s been working for some time now, though she was probably only recruited recently. The witch must have made quite the impression, to have the child practically running with her tail between her legs. He would expect no less, by now.  
He returns to the hotel, fighting sleep for the entire short drive. As much as he would like to pass out upon entering his room, there’s still business that needs to be taken care of.

As much as he would rather wait until he has his strength back, he calls Flemeth once he’s back in his hotel room.

“Evening,” she greets. “Any luck finding our missing item?”

“Not particularly,” Solas admits. “Did you try to kill your contact working the site, per chance?”

“The break in was not within her control, and Dagna is far more useful to me alive,” she assures him. “For the moment, anyway. Someone tried to have her killed?”

“Perhaps,” he replies, dragging a hand over his eyes. “There was a collapse in the thaig; it could have been an accident, but the entire situation is far too…”

“Convenient? Most definitely,” Flemeth agrees sharply. “There is a rat in our midst. Whoever this is has robbed me and targeted one of my agents-- this is a direct challenge, and I will not stand for it.”

“There is a man who has replaced the former supervisor,” Solas says, “I have a strange sort of sense… I do not think he is who claims to be. There must be a connection between him and the rest of this situation.”

“What is his name? He may have been the one to stage the robbery,” Flemeth theorizes. “If he is supervising the excavation, then he would have easy access to any of their findings.”

“Stefan Richardson is the name he gave, but it sounds like a rather poorly conceived alias, personally,” Solas wonders aloud.

“I will look into him,” she says. “If he is the one who has taken the artifact, there is a chance that it has not been moved yet. He merely could’ve staged the robbery and hidden it to avoid suspicion.”

“So am I to dig through a stranger’s belongings then?” Solas sighs. He shrugs out of his jacket and throws it over the back of the chair by the window.

“You are to investigate, and do your best not to be seen, pup,” Flemeth rephrases.

“I will see what I can do,” Solas concedes. “I might also be able to look into the Fade for information on the artifact, even if I cannot study it in person.”

“Please do,” Flemeth replies. “Quiet dreams, Fade Walker.”

In her usual fashion, Flemeth hangs up before he can get another word in.

Solas glances to his jacket-- he could try to read over some of Dagna’s notes. He honestly doubts he’d be able to glean anything from them at this point. It’s doubtful he’ll even be able to dream that effectively, as he may just black out the second he hits the bed.

In defeat, he kicks off his shoes, turns out the light, and crawls under the covers.

\--

As he’d feared, Solas isn’t able to actively mold his dreams as he usually would. The dream is murky at first, but it suddenly starts to warp and shift itself as another presence takes hold.

Sand seeps in between his bare tos with each step, and something other than the gentle breeze is dragging him toward the water. The moonlight on the lake reminds him of another night, centuries ago. He’d held out for an admiral time, now that he looks back on it. So many subtle invitations to take things further that he’d pretended not to notice, doing his best to keep his thoughts and hands away. Kissing her had been enough of a mistake-- any further intimacy would’ve only made the situation worse.

He’d given in, of course, and after the first time, he’d sworn he wouldn’t let it happen again. Damn fool.

It did happen again, that same night in fact. They’d all retired to their tents, Solas and Dorian in one, Cassandra and Morinthe in another. A few hours later, once Cassandra and Dorian were sleeping, there she was, peeking through the tent flap and eagerly whispering to Solas. He’d been smart enough to bring a blanket, at least. It is a wonder the Venatori did not happen upon them lying in the shadow of a cliff face, bare as the day they’d been born.

Then there was the time she caught him skulking the barracks in the dark of the morning, then in mage’s tower, the war room, and a few affairs in the courtyard. Possibly the only part of the castle they’d never gotten around to was in the main hall-- that area was just never empty enough.

Each time they embraced, he would lie to himself again. Just once more, and never again. Like he hadn’t already dug himself into this grave and dragged her down with him. Just his luck that he’d entangle himself with someone nearly as insatiable as he is.

His greed devoured her whole, in the end. It would be ridiculous to blame his actions on her advances-- it could’ve, should have, ended at the beginning, before he’d ever even spoken with the girl.

She sits with her back to him, shallow water lapping gently around her waist and wet hair hanging in sheets about her shoulders. The water that teases the ends of hs toes is unnaturally cold, a silent barrier he cannot bring himself to cross.

There’s a gasping, frustrated sigh. She plunges one arm into the water and rubs furiously at her skin with the other. Through the veil of hair he catches a glimpse of clenched teeth and a snarl.

“Please let me help,” he softly begs.

“No one can help me!” she snaps. She gives up on whatever it is she sees on her arms and dunks her hair under the water instead. Then, she wrings it out, once, twice, three times, tighter and tighter until he fears she’ll rip it out at the root.

“You will not even let me try!” he bites, but shakes his head, eye squeezed shut. Is this what it was like for her then? Breaking himself to pieces for someone determined not to listen?

A thin layer of ice is collecting over the surface of the water, dissolving as she thrashes only to build up again all the faster. Solas tries to move, to will himself forward, but he finds it’s all he can do not to be knocked away from the water.

“Go back inside; it’s cold out here,” she mutters, raking her hands feverishly across his scalp. She shivers and claws at her skin, but the ice is surely creeping up her spine and over her purple fingers.

“Not without you,” he insists, bracing himself against the screaming wind.

“There’s no way to fix it; it won’t go away,” she mutters helplessly. She curls in on herself, fingers lacing together behind her neck as the water becomes solid around her shaking ankles. “I’m broken, damaged merchandise, get it? Worthless.”

“Don’t say that, never say that!”

He ducks his head to shield his eyes from the freezing gusts of wind. The Fade is his domain; why can’t he move?

She’s fading away, being swallowed whole. Though it feels as if he were pulling his knees out of their sockets with every step, and it takes all of his focus not be thrown from the dream entirely. Even though she’s so close to the shore, it takes a small eternity to reach her.

She tries to smack his hands away, but it is a limp, half-hearted effort. Her skin, already encrusted in a thick layer ice, burns to the touch. He tries once to pull her from the water, but it does not break its hold. Again, he tugs harder this time, and he can hear it start to whine and crack.

Still, it isn’t enough. She’s sinking into the murk beneath them, and the cold is climbing up his own arms now.

He gives one last, hopeless heave. The ice is breaking, but she’s falling faster now. He can feel himself getting dragged in with her, though it hardly matters.

“Would you like to know all that I’ve done?” he gasps. “I have destroyed everything I had ever loved, time and again. I hurt countless innocents for the sake of my own selfish pride, and I will die knowing that I may never be able to repay the debt I owe this world. If you once saw something in me worth saving, then there must be hope for you.”

She hisses, a ragged, rasping breath, and for a second the pull from underneath relents. It is all the time he needs to pull her, shivering and soaked, from the ever deepening waters.

He staggers back to shore and lays her down on the sand. He wills it to be soft, warm, but her damp flesh still trembles. Solas pulls the pelt from his shoulders and wraps it around her, guarding her naked skin from the unforgiving air.  
Solas sighs, and he finally lets his eyes sink closed as exhaustion sets in. A shaking hand pulls him down, but instead of earth his cheek comes to rest on cotton sheets.

The lake is gone, replaced by a room he remembers all too well, but he is not the one who has brought them here. Her quarters in Skyhold are just as they were back then, when he wake here beside her in the early morning. Could some part of his subconscious have conjured this vision, or, perhaps, hers?

“I’m sorry,” Morinthe whispers. Her eyes are half lidded, staring at nothing.

“You were nearly possessed,” Solas breathes.

“Despair,” she intones. “I don’t usually let it get the best of me like that. I just get so tired of fighting…”

“Then perhaps it is time to let go,” he murmurs, tucking her hair behind her ear.

She smiles ruefully and shuts her eyes. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Simple, but not easy,” Solas says.

“Thanks for not letting me become an abomination,” she meekly says. “Pretty sure Sera would be royally pissed with me if I had.”

Solas curls his hand around hers. “Yes, I am afraid I cannot stand by and watch you implode, apologies.”

“You really are hard to run off, aren’t you?” Morinthe chuckles humorlessly. “I guess I might just be stuck with you, then.”

He can feel her easing down already. He can’t cure this illness for her, that is her own battle, but Solas can treat the symptoms.

“Where are we?” he asks, running his free hand through her drying hair.

“Safe,” she numbly answers. “The demons don’t usually come here.”

This touches him in a way she probably wouldn’t understand. It is nice to know that, even in some small way, he has brought her spirit some comfort, despite everything he’s put her through.

“I did not know you could control your dreams,” he says.

“I adapted,” Morinthe flatly replies. “And I only really know how to come here, if I’m really desperate.”

“Do they trouble you often?” he murmurs.

“Not usually, not anymore,” she admits. “It was worse a few years ago. I’ve been, thinking about some old ghosts lately, though.”

“I cannot change the past,” he says. This much, he’s had to learn the hard way. “But perhaps, if speaking to someone about it could help…”

“I guess I never really have, honestly,” Morinthe realizes. “I don’t know if I’m ready just this second, but… is the Crestwood offer still valid?”

Flemeth had given him a direct order. If he were to leave now, it would not go unpunished. Even if he uses the Eluvians, there’s nothing stopping Richardson from taking the artifact and running. Still, Morinthe clearly is unwell. He’d almost lost her tonight, all over again.

“Of course,” he answers. “What day is best for you?”

“How’s Saturday?” Morinthe proposes with a tentative smile.

The day after tomorrow, good. He’d do whatever he could in Antiva to satisfy Flemeth, and then he could go to her.

“Saturday,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “We can work out the details over the phone.”

“Alright,” she says. She looks so tired, too tired for such a young woman. If anyone deserves to rest easy, with all she’s done for the world, it is Morinthe.

He cradles her head in his hands and kisses her on the forehead first, then one for each cheek, her nose, and then her chin. Only by the time that she’s outright laughing does he find her lips. The taste is flatly sweet, a shadow woven by his incomplete memories, and it mixes the salt that runs down his cheeks.

“Don’t cry…” she pleads, snaking her arms under his to rub circles over his spine. “I hate it when you cry.”

“You make it sound as though it is something I do often,” he rasps, putting on his best, hollow smirk.

“You cry a lot, but usually just on the inside,” she explains. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll never tell.”

She takes in a deep, shuddering breath. He likes the way her throat quivers, always has. She gasps deliciously as he bites down on the side of her neck, just firmly enough to hurt. Morinthe’s growl is his only warning before he’s rolled over onto his back.

She sits up on his chest, pelt hanging regally on her bare shoulders as she unabashedly stares down at him.

“I’m the only one you want, right?” Morinthe asks, looming proudly over as if sitting in judgment once again.

He slowly nods as she drags her thumb across his lower lip.

“What if…” she trails off, tilting her head to the side. “What if I wasn’t around anymore? Maybe I get hit by a car or something. Could you see yourself, getting over me?”

“No, I can’t,” he tells her. “But I’d find a way to carry on, somehow.”

He encloses both of her small hands in his own and pointedly adds, “It is a good thing that you are not going anywhere, isn’t it?”

“I hope so…” she whispers, just barely loud enough for him to hear. “Solas?”

“Yes, sa’asha?”

“Tell me a story,” she says, tracing the line of his adam’s apple with her fingertips.

“What kind of story?” he asks as her hand slips underneath the collar of his shirt.

“A happy one,” she decides.

So he tells her every happy story he can think of, true or otherwise. A few times he changes the ending, and she gives him a knowing look. This is a dream, though-- why should the truth matter?

Every now and again, he can hear Despair’s long fingernails scratching at the windows or pounding at the door, but he holds her tightly against his chest, face turned into his skin. He runs out of tales, eventually, and instead he tells her about Arlathan, of shining crystal spires amongst the clouds and unimaginable feats of magic.

He does everything in his power to ward the demons away until he feels her start to fade in his arms. The sun is coming to take his heart away, but it is no matter. They will be together in the flesh soon enough.

“Promise me,” he says, “Hold on until I see you.”

“I promise,” she softly answers as the dream unfurls around them, giving way to cold daylight.


	15. Chapter 15

The first thing Morinthe does when she gets up the next day is check her phone. Still, no new unknown messages since she’d changed her number. That makes it a good forty-eight hours, doesn’t it? It would seem that her fix, simple as it was, has worked.

 

She doesn’t even have a panic attack that morning. Who knows, maybe she’ll even get the call she’s been waiting on today, if things keep going the way they have.

 

Still wanting to ride her good mood for all it’s worth, Morinthe starts to make breakfast. She gets out the eggs, and there’s even a little bacon left in the fridge. It’s hard to work with the rather minute stove and counter space, but she manages to pull something together.

 

Sera, still passed out and sprawled on the recliner, begins to twitch as the apartment fills with the promising smell of bacon.

 

“Andraste’s hairy tits,” Sera groans. “Is my skull leaking brains, or do I just have a headache?”

 

“I do see a little brain matter on the armrest, but that might just be vomit,” Morinthe chirps. There’s only three paper plates left in the cabinet-- she makes a mental note to pick some up if she goes out later. There’s nothing stopping her after all, right?

 

“Arse,” she grunts. Morinthe hands her a plate and sits down on the clean armrest beside her.

 

She thinks about telling Sera about her little trip on Saturday, but she can’t quite bring herself to do it. She’ll tell her tonight, maybe. No reason to start a fight at the beginning of the day-- that’ll just ruin the rest of a perfectly good morning.

 

“Why aren’t you hungover?” Sera asks her suspiciously as she shovels a fork-full of eggs into her mouth.

 

“I told you I wasn’t that drunk,” Morinthe chuckles. “Looks like you hit the bottle worse than I did.”

 

“I think I only had three…” she mumbles.

 

“One more than I did,” Morinthe triumphantly declares. “I also slept pretty well.”

 

“I don’t know how you sleep on this damn thing every night,” Sera sighs, rolling her shoulder with a chorus of pops.

 

“I dunno,” she replies. “I’ve slept on less comfortable things. You don’t have work today, do you?”

 

“Not until noon,” Sera mumbles.

 

“You might want to catch a nap while you can then. I think I’m going to go run some errands. Do you have any requests?” she asks.

 

“Cat food. I’m pet sitting for Bossman’s girlfriend again tonight. Apparently it likes to hop up on the bed when they screw, so I’ve heard. Never likes to have it over when he spends the night,” Sera snickers. “I don’t judge, and he takes the money out of my rent for my time.”

“Ok, cat food it is then,” Morinthe says, shaking her head fondly. “Maybe some aspirin too?”

 

“Nah, coffee might be nice though,” Sera replies.

 

She changes clothes, and before Morinthe does head out, she puts on a grey hoodie. Even though she’s deciding this whole thing is over with, she does feel a bit safer with a way to cover her face.

 

“Be back in one piece, yeah?” Sera calls to her as she leaves.

 

“I’ll try,” Morinthe tells her with a wry smile.

 

The air outside is that refreshing, crisp cool exclusive to winter mornings. Morinthe hates the cold, but it does feel rather nice on her balmy skin. She pulls her hood up as she trots down the sidewalk, counting the cracks and tiny weeds as she goes by. She can’t quite look at other people without her heart leaping up in her chest, and she still can’t shake the feeling that she’s being watched. Her phone hasn’t gone off, though, so she holds on to hope. In a worst case scenario, she is still armed anyway.

 

The corner store is only a couple of blocks away, and being as early as it is still, there aren’t too many people skulking about in there when she arrives. It’s a tiny, dinky little store, and for some reason it always smells like burnt popcorn.

 

It reminds her a lot of the store at the end of Sera’s street growing up. Morinthe can’t help the guilt that sloshes in her gut at the thought-- that’s where their criminal careers had started, after all. They’d stolen candy, not even because they really wanted it, but just for the thrill of getting away with some petty form of crime. Morinthe had taught Sera how to watch for the clerk and cameras and to shove chocolate bars in her jacket quick enough not to be seen.

 

Morinthe had grown out of thieving by the ripe old age of nine, but Sera kept on with it. Even though a lot of it had to do with the crowd Sera hung out with, Morinthe can’t help feeling like it was her fault in some way. She does have much of a taste of candy bars these days.

 

She grabs a bottle of iced coffee as she walks through the beverages, and then she picks up a bag of potato chips, for kicks. Morinthe ends up going back to the front to grab a basket-- cat food is heavier than she’d anticipated.

While she shops, she looks online at the bus schedule between Denerim and Crestwood. The earlier arrival time, unless she feels like riding over night, seems to be about noon. She texts Solas a screen capture of the page.

 

_ Noon then? _ , he texts back.

 

_ If that’s good for you _ , she replies.

 

_ Perfect, I’ll be waiting at your stop _ , he quickly sends.

 

_ See you then _ .

 

She smiles to herself, feeling a bit airy on her own small feet. It’s kind of nice to know that someone thinks you’re special, even if it’s just to him. The trouble will be learning to think of herself that way, man or no man. There’s no way to have a proper relationship with someone unless a person is on good terms with herself, right? Not that she’s interested in that sort of thing, anyway…

 

Morinthe can’t help rolling her eyes at herself. Alright, maybe she likes him. Really likes him, in the going out on dates sort of fashion perhaps. It’s a good, tangible goal, actually. She’ll work on herself until she’s able to do this properly, almost like a normal person. Her resistance to even the idea of it up until now just seems so, silly, in hindsight.

 

Once she gets her working visa and starts up a job, she’ll be able to look into therapy. Maybe she’d benefit from some medication, too. Insurance might be an issue, but she’ll deal with that when it comes.

 

She sort of off in her own world when someone harshly brushes her shoulder, nearly knocking her to the floor. Morinthe blinks owlishly as the tall boy gives her an apologetic smile.

 

“Sorry miss,” he says, seemingly kind, but there’s a strange aura of aggression coming off of him. His unwashed hair hangs loosely in his face, which could be handsome she supposes. He looks about the age to have just graduated highschool, and most notably, he has Andruil’s markings in bright scarlet carved into his face. They’re still healing, obviously freshly done.

 

“It’s fine,” Morinthe mumbles, still a bit dazed. He smiles, sneers really, like she’s just said something remarkably stupid.

“See you around,” he grunts, turning on his heel and loudly strolling down the aisle.

 

Morinthe is still for a moment, trying to work something out in her mind. There are no reservations around Denerim that she knows of. Yes, he could be on holiday or in school, but traditionally the vallaslin is only applied on the reservation. Aside from that, he face is distressingly familiar.

 

_ You could have met him at Arlathvhen _ , she dismisses. There’s no way he’s a Lavellan-- they don’t leave the reservation, after all.

 

It’s the violence she’d sensed in him that really disturbs her. He reminds her of the kids who would drown cats and throw rocks at mockingbirds when she was younger. Morinthe feels a little sorry for whomever his parents are-- he seems like the type to act out.

 

She suddenly doesn’t feel quite so comfortable in this store anymore. Morinthe picks up the rest of what she needs and doesn’t waste any time getting to the checkout. Wonder of wonders, the delinquent gets in line right behind her. All he has in his hands is a bottle of cola and some mints.

 

Morinthe does her best not to look at him, but he keeps standing just barely too close for comfort. She gets the feeling that he knows he’s bothering her, and that it entertains him quite a bit.

 

She feels a little hot all of the sudden, so she pushes up her sleeves.

 

“Oh, you got the full body ones, huh?” he loudly notes. “I wanted those, but the elders said they’d have to think on it or some shit. That I had to earn them.”

 

“I wish you luck,” Morinthe says, only sparing him a glance as she inches forward in line. Why is it so long today, of all days?

 

“So, um,” he begins, leaning over so his snickering breath tickles her ear. “Do they go,  _ everywhere _ ?”

 

Morinthe is awash with shock at first, but it quickly boils into seething rage. How badly would this go if she punches this brat in his smug face? It probably isn’t the best way to handle the situation, but it’s very tempting.

 

Instead, she glares into the back of the man in line in front of her and says nothing.

 

Apparently, the kid finds this hilarious, because he keeps on chuckling to himself.

 

Thankfully, he doesn’t say much more. He’s still constantly getting in her space, and it honestly feels like he might reach out and grab her. The kid is just the sort of person filled with pent up energy, ready to let loose at any second.

 

Morinthe power walks out of the building once she’s finally checked out. She’s honestly surprised that she’d managed to wait long enough-- she’d been half tempted just to walk out, cat food be damned.

 

She keeps her eyes trained on the sidewalk, but occasionally she does glance behind her. Though Morinthe doesn’t think she’s being followed, she’s not quite comfortable going home just yet. Instead, she walks into a coffee shop to sit for a while.

 

Morinthe orders a coffee, black as usual, and sits at a table by the window. She takes deep breaths, trying to work off her anger and unease. Just a typical douchebag, nothing to be concerned over.

 

She reaches into her bag by her feet to grab a granola bar when she sees the envelope again. Morinthe had all but forgotten about the letter, she realizes. She’s alone and has time to kill, so she takes it out and opens the envelope.

 

There’s a few pieces of paper in it, but she takes the letter out first and begins to read it.

 

_ Dear Lucia, _

 

_ I have always been so afraid of becoming old! It is not so bad, now that I’ve lived it, though I do envy those spry sixty-year olds like you. It may be a little harder than it used to be, but I do get out in the garden every day that I can. There’s a nice lad from down the street that I pay on the weekdays to help me around the house. He’s a sweet thing, makes me wish I were thirty years younger. _

 

Morinthe has to stifle her laughter with her hand at that.  _ Such a cougar,  _ she thinks.

_ Our old friend Deshanna invited me over for lunch the other day. Her son is such a handsome lad, smart too. He’ll do well as Keeper one day, if that’s what he really wants. You really do need to come up and visit some time. I have no chance, but a young thing like you might! _

 

_ I have to tell you something that may shock you. I do not think I have much time left, so I fear I must pass on something to you. Aunt Ingrid gave this to me before her passing, and I did not understand until now. Our ancient duty is being called upon. When I visited the Clan last, I saw a strange man. I sensed a darkness within him, and I feel I must pass on what I know as soon as I can. _

 

_ We have been lied to. You will understand, in time. Keep them secret, safe, and you will know when you must reveal them. _

 

_ Best wishes, _

 

_ Lucretia _

 

_ Crazy is right _ , Morinthe thinks. It had just been an ordinary letter, and then suddenly the topic had changed. So vague as well. Almost as if she’d wanted to make certain the wrong person didn’t read it.

 

She reaches into the envelope again and takes out another piece of paper. It’s a photocopy of an old looking letter, and Morinthe can’t actually understand what’s written on it, not entirely. It is in elvhen, she realizes.

 

Looking it over, Morinthe thinks that it may be an apology of some kind. It is addressed to Keeper Deshanna, but that could be one of at least fourteen keepers they’ve had by that name. It mentions a great loss of some kind, possibly a death, and a wish for repentance maybe? Morinthe’s elvhen is rusty to say the least, and she has trouble enough reading in Common.

 

It is signed only  _ Harellan _ . Betrayer? Whoever this was clearly didn’t like himself, if he’d go by that name. Morinthe can’t understand what’s so important about this letter herself, though. Perhaps she’d get if she could really read the thing. Maybe she’ll show it Solas when she sees him.

 

There’s only two more things in the envelope, photographs.

 

She takes the first one out and freezes.

 

It’s her class picture from the first grade. A bunch of smiling kids all around, mostly human, but a few elves, dwarves, and even a Qunari thrown in there. Morinthe is sitting in the front, with the other short kids, proudly displaying the gap where her front teeth should be.

 

Morinthe can’t say she doesn’t believe entirely in coincidences, but some things are just too damn convenient. It makes sense that Aunt Lucretia might have this picture, but she didn’t even mention Morinthe in the letter. It’s just weird, and a bit creepy.

 

She takes the last photograph out, and if she’d been creeped out before, she’s mortified now.

 

It’s another picture of her, or, actually, a photo of a painting of her. The painting is old, that much is certain, but it looks like she does now, down to the mole on her jaw. There are a couple details that are off- a scar on her brow, no vallaslin, and her hair is short- but it is unquestionably her face that looks back at her.

 

Morinthe flips the picture over, and on the back written in black marker it says “Inquisitor Lavellan, 4:28 Dragon.”

 

“That’s not possible,” she thinks aloud. It’s all she can manage at this point. It just can’t be right-- whoever wrote that label was just wrong. There’s never been a Dalish Inquisitor, and if she had been a Lavellan, surely Morinthe would’ve heard of it. More importantly, she would know if it had been herself!

 

She has to go see Lucia, immediately. Why wouldn’t she have said something, if she thought the Inquisitor was a Lavellan? She had been acting strangely when Morinthe left, now that she thinks about it.

 

Morinthe picks up her phone and tries to call her, but it rings and rings. No one ever picks up, even when she calls a second time. Maybe she’s away, or ignoring her. Normally she would let it go, but honestly this is too much to let off. She has to have answers, even if it’s all just the mad ravings of a senile old woman.

 

She picks up her bags, slings her backpack over her shoulders, and walks out. Her phone, still in her hand vibrates.

 

Morinthe quickly checks her messages, assuming it must be Lucia. It isn’t, though, in fact she’s never seen the number before. Unlike all of the other messages, for once this one actually says something.

 

_ How does it feel to fuck the Dread Wolf? _

 

She’s stopped in her tracks. What’s that even supposed to mean?

 

Morinthe knows she shouldn’t, that she should just block the number and get going, but she can’t help herself.

 

_ Who the fuck is this? You aren’t fucking funny, and I’m not scared of you. _

 

Their reply is swift and to the point.

 

_ You’ve always been a terrible liar, Morinthe. _

 

Before she even gets a chance to absorb this, another message comes in. It’s a picture again.

 

The photo is blurry, as if whoever it was who’d taken it had been moving. After a few seconds of looking at it, though, the subject becomes terrifyingly clear. It’s the front door of Lucia’s house.

 

As Morinthe runs in that direction, more pictures are coming in. Lucia’s picture frames have been thrown in the floor and broken, presumably with the baseball bat in the photographer’s other hand. Then the invader goes into the kitchen to start smashing the cups and plates in her cabinets. There’s still no sign of Lucia herself, but no doubt she can hear the noise he’s making.

 

Morinthe barely avoids getting hit by a car as she crosses the street, but she doesn’t pay it any mind.

 

_ Please stop, I’ll do whatever you want _ , she begs the invisible assailant.

 

The next photo is sent from the stairs. The landing in dark, but she can see light coming out from an open door at the top. There’s a figure standing in the doorway.

 

After that, she doesn’t get any more photographs, and somehow that’s even more horrifying than knowing what’s going on in the house.

 

By the time she gets there, Lucia’s home is quiet. The front door hangs open, clearly having been kicked open.

 

It doesn’t cross her mind that they may still be in there, waiting for her. Morinthe just runs in, dropping her cat food by the door, and she sprints up the glass covered steps to the still open door.

 

There’s blood all over Lucia’s brand new carpet. She’s lying there, bleeding from the head, but the old woman is moaning, breathing. Morinthe falls to her knees, looking at the head wound while dialing 911 with her free hand. Shit, why hadn’t she done that earlier? Why does she have to be such an idiot?

 

Morinthe can only hold the old woman’s hand as they wait for the ambulance to come. Lucia is breathing heavily and blinking wildly, like she doesn’t know where she is. Eventually, though, she manages to train her eyes on Morinthe, and she furrows her brows in determination.

 

“My child,” she gasps, grasping onto Morinthe’s forearm with a stronger grip than she’d expect. “You are not safe here. You must go.”

 

“Not until the ambulance gets here,” Morinthe tells her.

 

“You don’t understand,” she insists. “Run, far away as far as you can. He is coming for you.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Morinthe begs her in frustration. “What the fuck is going on?”

 

There’s footsteps down the stairs. Her first instinct is fear, but she soon realizes it’s the EMT’s. They ask her who she is, if she wants to ride to the hospital, but none of it matters. All she can think about is Sera, still sleeping at home, completely unaware.

 

“I just have to go home,” she keeps saying, and eventually she’s able to get out of the door. 

 

Morinthe runs back to the shop, checking her phone all the while. The unknown number doesn’t send her any more messages, though. Wherever the assailant has gone, he seems to be satisfied with the amount of torment he’s caused her for today.

 

She slams the door to the apartment open, and Sera is just where she was when Morinthe had left.

 

Sera blinks at her in confusion. “Hey, what’s up? Where’s the cat food?”

 

Morinthe’s mind goes blank for a moment. “I… sorry, I forgot.”

 

“You forgot?” Sera repeats in confusion as she sits up. “What have you been up to then? It’s been two hours.”

 

“I, um…” Morinthe begins, but there are already tears welling up in her eyes.

 

Sera is across the room in an instant, concern etched across her features.

 

“My friend, Lucia, her house was broken into,” Morinthe explains. She quickly tries to come up with a story on the spot. “She called me; I must have left the cat food at her house.”

 

“She okay?” Sera asks.

 

“I don’t know,” Morinthe answers. “They took her to the hospital. I think she was hit on the head.”

 

“Do you want to go and visit her then?” She says, grabbing her coat off of the floor.

 

“I don’t know if they’ll let us,” Morinthe thinks aloud. “We aren’t family, heck, not even that close of friends. I barely know her.”

 

“Well,” Sera says, checking her watch. “I have to get to work. Are you going to be alright?”

 

“I think so,” Morinthe lies.

 

“Okay,” Sera replies. She gives her a tight hug and heads out the door.

 

Morinthe stands still in the middle of the room, measuring her options.

 

She wants to leave as soon as possible, that much is certain. If they came after Lucia, then anyone that she’s seen with could be targeted. Maybe that’s what this sociopath is counting on, though. Morinthe is no old woman, but she’s not sure whether or not she could take this lunatic on in a fight alone.

 

And if she just up and leaves now, then Sera will just assume she’s moved away somewhere. If something happened to her, nobody would be the wiser.

 

Morinthe will make it through tonight, at least, then she can go tomorrow. She’ll take the bus, and Solas will be waiting for her when she gets to Crestwood, or doesn’t get there.

 

She locks the windows, and then the door. Twenty-four hours is all she has to make it through, until then, sleep is too risky.

 

Sera keeps about three packs of Red Bull in the refrigerator at any given time, so Morinthe helps herself to the first she’ll have of many tonight. She curls up in the recliner, switchblade in one hand, pepper spray beside her. The television is on, but her eyes are trained on the door.

 

Her phone rests facedown on the armrest, and it does not ring again.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Dagna’s notes are intriguing, but ultimately do not bring him any closer to actually locating the artifact. From what he can tell, the artifact is similar to a foci in that it requires powerful magic to activate, which only makes its nature all the more strange. Why would the dwarves design a weapon they couldn’t use?

Although the chamber itself is gone, Dagna does have some footage taken from within. There aren’t any writings on the walls per say, but there are murals lining the resting place of the artifact.

_ “We found it here in what appears to be a tomb of some kind. Perhaps it was buried with its creator? Remains were practically dust, so we may never know,”  _ Dagna muses to the camera as she pans over the resting place.

It is a crime that such history was lost, whether by accident or no. There’s nothing for it now, he supposes. Flemeth may wish the artifact to be destroyed, if it proves to be too dangerous. He’d rather be rid of the thing than have it fall into the hands of an enemy, if that proves to be the case.

When he arrives at the dig-site that day, the tents are being taken down. Richardson passes like a wraith through the crowd as their findings are being carefully packed away to be shipped out. Solas approaches the man, who hops his weight nervously back and forth between his feet.

“Funding run out that quickly, did it?” Solas asks, arching his brow.

“There’s a storm front coming in, and since we were going to wrap things up this weekend, we thought we might as well move everything to safety. We wouldn’t have been able to get much done here anyway.” He explains dismissively.

“Where are your findings headed?” The truck looks less than safe for artifacts that are a good few millennia old.

“To the man who funded this operation,” he stiffly replies. “An Antivan man, apparently. He had little faith in this place after his friend, the good doctor, fell ill, and he was decidedly disinterested in continuing after the theft.”

Richardson begins to walk away from him, but Solas keeps in step beside the man.

“I did not ever hear the details of that incident, if you don’t mind my asking,” Solas says.

“It, ah, happened in the early hours of the morning, before any of us had arrived,” he answers, idly chewing his thumbnail. “There was a guard, but apparently he had fallen asleep at the time. It wasn’t particularly difficult for them to get in and out unnoticed.”

“Strange isn’t it?” Solas presses. “I saw pictures of some of your findings. Bejeweled goblets, gilded picture frames, ivory hair pins, and yet the only thing touched was a nondescript piece of stone work.”

“I suppose,” he grunts. “I do not pretend to understand the workings of the criminal mind.”

“Obviously not,” he mutters. “Does this benefactor of yours not wish to reclaim is lost property then?”

“As you said,” Richardson replies, “The artifact was of lesser value than the other pieces. It was not too great of a loss.”   
“And yet it was worth taking all the same,” Solas concludes aloud.

He raises up his bony hands and shrugs, “Makes no difference now. There’s nothing left for you here, so I’d suggest to go back wherever it is you came from and find someone else to badger.”

Solas almost speaks as the man marches away, but he knows a dead end when he sees one. As obvious as the answer appears to him, Solas doesn’t really have anything more than circumstantial evidence to stand on. Once everything is packed up and all of the researchers go back to their respective homes, Solas will be flat out of leads.

He briefly considers waiting in his car to follow Richardson back to wherever he’s been staying, but the rental is far too obvious. Solas will look to the Fade for answers tonight, but that may be the best he can do.

It’s frustrating, to say the least. He misses the days that he had eyes all up and down Thedas, but they’re long gone. He probably could’ve used sheer intimidation to get the truth out of the tiny man back then. The modern world is a marvel in many ways, but it is not so simple to get away with such things these days.

He goes back to his hotel. There are no new messages from Morinthe or Flemeth, although he knows the former at least will waiting on him to provide results. She’ll have to live with disappointment then-- she’s not his first priority, not anymore.

Solas knows he will, most likely, meet Morinthe in Crestwood tomorrow. It won’t be like last time, either. Perhaps he will be able to tell her the truth, but he doubts she’d handle it well. That’s been the trouble all along now, how to broach the topic.

_ By the way, I am the  ten thousand year old demon god of your culture, and you are my reincarnated lover that I watched die an age ago. _

Even as the plot of a film it would sound ridiculous. And she certainly hadn’t seemed to be in any state of mind to take that kind of shock the last time they’d spoken anyway. Another day, he tells himself again.

She knows something is off, though. How can he expect her to trust him if she feels as though he’s constantly hiding things from her? Life hasn’t granted him much experience in knowing how to love someone properly, but no relationship can be built on a foundation of secrets.

Maybe he’ll tell her, piece by piece. Slivers of truth that would one day connect into a whole. He’d hoped that she might miraculously remember herself, but things could never be that simple. Of course not.

That dream has sparked a small amount of optimism in him. A part of her, however deeply buried, remembers Skyhold at least. Perhaps, over time, more might come to her.

The most important thing right now is to make certain she’s safe, first and foremost. He lies in bed, phone resting face down on his chest, feeling every minute creep by like a century. He knows he’ll embrace her first, then run his hands through her hair perhaps. He’ll tell her he loves her, though not with words. There’s no need to stress her any more than she already is.

The words of the fiend from a few nights before echo warily through his mind.

_ Never know when she might slip away _ …

He could hunt him down, but he has probably descended back into the Void. That would take too much of his strength to journey that far across the Veil.

Solas takes up his coat and bags. He’s going to be checking out early-- the nearest Eluvian is still about a half hour away, and he has to take the rental car back as well.

He could go to Denerim tonight, if he wished. Solas would think of some excuse, that he’d had to catch an earlier flight. She’d be irritated with him, shocked to say the least. It would help to ease this anxious knot in his chest, though.

The memory, buried so deeply into his knotted psyche, of her limp, cold hand in his now torments him endlessly. He thinks in his mind that she is likely alive, somewhere, but he cannot know until he sees her for himself.

He knows he probably shouldn’t, but he sends Morinthe a text.

_ Are you doing alright? _

With every minute that passes without an answer, his heart rate picks up a bit. It’s a little ridiculous, all things being considered. Morinthe has never been one to constantly check her cell phone. She does end up texting him back, and Solas is able to breathe again.

_ I’ve been better, but I think I’ll be okay. _

At least she’s being somewhat honest, even if she’s not giving any details. That’s what concerns him most. In his experience, she only ever hides anything from him when she thinks it will be particularly upsetting.

He hopes her secret isn’t a dangerous one, but with each day he grows more certain that this is exactly the case. All the more reason to have her here, where he can preferable kill anything that tries to lay a single hand on her. He quickly typed his reply. 

_ Are you safe? _

She takes even longer to answer him this time. It’s almost enough for him to go to the nearest Eluvian immediately to make sure in person, regardless of the questions that might raise. Thankfully, she does send him a text before he has to resort to that.

_ Yeah. I’m at home, Sera’s here. _

He actually breathes a sigh of relief. Sera most likely no longer practices archery, but he trusts she’d be willing to opt with the odd kitchen knife if needed. Solas had never thought he’d see the day that he’d be thankful for her maddening jealousy, considering the numerous times she’d attempted to shoot and or stab him in past. And yet, here he is.

To be fair, he can see where she was coming from back then. His and Morinthe’s relationship, particularly after the mark was removed, had been extremely toxic for both of them. Solas cannot fault the girl, bull headed as she may be, for wanting the best for someone she cared about.

He’s not going to give her a reason to want him dead this time, hopefully.

_ Take care of yourself _ , he sends her. Meaning, of course, please don’t do anything stupid.

_ You too. See you soon. _

Solas’ eyes slide closed. She’s fine, safe, not alone. His chest is still tight, though, and he feels pinpricks of dampness threatening to spill out from the corners of his eyes. She wasn’t alone last time he lost her either.

Not last time, the only time. Never again.

That moment is burned into his memory. There hasn’t been a day, not in the past centuries it’s been, that it hasn’t crossed his mind. The blood on his hands, on her armor, her face. So much blood, everywhere. But she’d still smiled at him anyway, whispered that she’d loved him, even though she barely had the strength to keep her eyes open.

He’ll never the forget the feeling of her hand falling from his cheek. The guttural scream of grief that had all but completely leveled the entire ruin around them.

She’d felt like nothing in his hands when he carried back the body, the shell. She had single handedly changed his and the fates of all of Thedas, and that tiny, malnourished, broken form was all that was left of her. All of this pain hand delivered by the monster that had claimed to love her.

At the end of the day, he doesn’t deserve to have anything to do with her. Solas probably hasn’t earned the privilege of being alive at all. It seems like a waste of her gift to let himself wither away, however. Morinthe had gone through all of that suffering just to save someone as despicable as himself.

For now, he just does his best to breathe. It comes out in shudders at first, and he has to bite back a sob or two. He manages to calm himself down again for the moment. Solas needs to have a clear mind for whatever comes ahead.

* * *

 

 

Morinthe tosses her phone down on Sera’s bed as she steps into the bathroom.

She’d almost told Solas, almost. But what good would it have done? He’s out of the country, and he can’t exactly come any faster than he already is. There’s no reason to make him worry any more.

Morinthe had wanted to go to the hospital to see Lucia, but then she realized that she has no idea where they’d taken her. Aside from that, Morinthe isn’t even a close friend of hers-- she doubts the hospital would even let her see the woman.

She shuts herself into Sera’s dinky little bathroom. There’s barely even enough room for tiny little Morinthe to fit in here; she can’t imagine how anyone else could manage. Maybe a dwarf would be fine with it.

Morinthe steps into the shower and shuts herself in. She turns the water on, not even bothering to wait for it to get warm. She sinks down to the floor and curls into a ball, resting her head on her arms. Even once the water is warm, scaldingly hot even, Morinthe can’t stop shaking.

All she can think about is the number of locks Lucia had on her door. She doesn’t seem like the type of woman who would just casually forget them, either. And it hadn’t mattered. None of it, the fact that she was just an old woman, that she’d done nothing but spoken with Morinthe twice. Whoever this psychopath is, they’d broken the door down and brutally beaten someone who couldn’t fight back.

She thinks she might throw up. A part of her doesn’t want to go within a thousand miles of Solas, or Sera, or anyone for that matter. She’d rather be left broken and bleeding for dead in a back alley than let a single person more get hurt because of her.

If only she’d never been born. Then none of this would have ever happened. Maybe if she does die they’ll be satisfied-- perhaps that’s been their goal all along, to drive her over the edge. Surely they could have done it months ago if they’d just wanted kill her themselves.

Morinthe honestly does think about doing it. Sera has some sleeping pills in her medicine cabinet. She could down the bottle and be done with it all. No one else would have to hurt; she’d be gone and these monsters could finally be done with her.

She remembers the promise she’d made to Solas. Hold on until she sees him next. He’d be so heartbroken-- he would think it was his fault, even if it clearly wasn’t. Sera would never forgive herself either. Morinthe begins to cry outright at the thought of her best friend finding her in here, naked and on the dirty bathroom floor. And neither of them would ever know why.

No, she has to fight back. She needs to tell Sera as soon as she gets out of this damn shower, tell her everything. Not bits and pieces, avoiding the most unpleasant parts, the whole truth. For once in her miserable life, she needs to be honest.

Morinthe tips her head back, letting the water fall over her face. Stupid, so stupid. If she’d just treated this more seriously, right from the start, this whole thing could have been avoided. The best thing she can do for Lucia is come forward with what she knows. Maybe a bunch of random texts won’t help the police any, but it’d be a terrible thing to just hide what she knows. Maybe they’ll be able to trace the numbers somehow, heck if she knows.

No time to be weak anymore. Her friends are all on the line now. She could honestly care less whether or not anything happens to her, but she has to protect them. Keeping them in the dark hasn’t done anything but make this worse. They have to know that they’re in danger.

Shakily, but with a steadfastness that is familiar in a way she cannot place, Morinthe steps out of the shower. She gathers up her clothes and throws them on, even though she’s still soaked through. She walks out the door, Sera’s name almost on her lips.

But then she notices that the apartment seems almost too quiet. Sera is always loud, even when she’s not speaking. She’s always shaking her leg or pacing or watching T.V.-- the girl can’t stand quiet. There’s dead silence in the apartment now, however.

Morinthe walks into the living room, and it seems Sera is indeed gone. Maybe she’d left while Morinthe was in the shower and hadn’t wanted to disturb her.

A wave of unease comes crashing down onto her. When she hadn’t been completely alone, there was at least this assurance that someone would know if anything happened to her.

She checks the door, and it is indeed locked. Morinthe re-draws the chain across it, just to be safe. She doubts that would really help, but she remembers that there’s an entire shop downstairs. Anyone who tried to get up to the flat would be seen by several people, and the shop itself is closing for the night anyway.

Morinthe lets out a breath, but she can’t seem to ease the uncertainty in her chest. It’s unusually cold in the apartment, she notes. To ease her stress, she checks the two windows in the living room.

They’re both locked, and looking down at the street below, she can see that no one is walking around outside. Her breath fogs up the cold glass as she anxiously inspects the shadows around the pools of street lights down below. Not even a soul out tonight, it seems.

Where could Sera have gone? Perhaps they’d needed her down in the shop for closing. It seems like a logical enough conclusion, but something still feels so wrong about all of this. Sera is no old woman, but she’s still just one person.

Something breaks behind her.

Morinthe whirls around, heart racing. It’s a glass, she realizes. It must’ve fallen off of the counter. It seems strange that Sera would leave the thing so precariously placed on the edge of the counter like that, though. Carefree as she is, she’s very protective of what few hard earned belongings she does have.

Morinthe grabs the broom and dustpan from beside the fridge and begins to clean up the mess. There’s no light in the entire apartment, save for what’s coming in from the street lamps and occasional car passing by outside. She definitely needs to turn a few lights on, all of them in fact. Energy conservation be damned.

She feels a draft come in from Sera’s room. It rattles her to the very core-- it’s twenty degrees outside, and she’s not exactly wearing an overcoat or anything.

It very suddenly occurs to her that, for a draft to come in, it needs a gap to come in through.

At first, she’s too terrified to move. After a few seconds, she calmly places the broom down, and she walks into Sera’s room.

Just as she’d feared, the curtains in front of her window are moving. Time dialites around her as she walks toward it, and a part of her wishes and prays to whatever will listen that Sera hasn’t left that fucking window unlocked.

As per the usual, any divine entity that could help her has conveniently ignored her plea. The window to the fire escape is wide open.

Morinthe’s first instinct is to run for the door, get downstairs, get to where someone can help her. She doesn’t get that chance.

Someone comes up from behind her, and before she can even scream, a pillow is shoved over her face and another large arm wraps in a vice grip around her arms and chest. She shrieks as loud as physically possible, shriller than she ever has in her life, but it’s hopelessly muffled by the pillow.

She realizes by the pressure they’re putting on both her face and chest that she’s being smothered. She knows it takes a great deal of force to truly kill someone that way, but not too much to make a person pass out.

Morinthe twists this way and that, flails her legs out, tries to knock something over. She throws her weight forward and kicks backward, trying anything that might knock the fucker down. Whoever he is, this man is significantly larger than she is, and it’s no use.

Her head is already feeling light, and she’s starting to see graininess in her covered vision. Even though her arms are pinned against her sides, she’s able to move them enough to rake her fingernails across his forearm.

“Shit, bitch!” he grunts, and he loses his grip on her for a second. It’s just enough for her to throw herself forward, and Morinthe goes rolling across the floor.

Her victory is rather short lived. As soon as she’s free, a foot stomps on her chest, knocking what little breath she has out of her.

He sits on her chest this time, and there’s absolutely nothing she can do when he presses the pillow against her face again. In seconds, her thrashing slows-- Morinthe blacks out.


End file.
